I kept my late wife’s memory alive through videotapes. Her voice, her laughter, her love—all preserved for the daughter she never got to raise. Those tapes were meant to be a gift for Amber’s 18th birthday. But when I went to retrieve them, they were gone. And what my new wife confessed left me frozen, heartbroken… and in tears.
The old tapes of my late wife, Nicole, sat in a cardboard box on the top shelf of my closet. I’d kept them there for sixteen years, waiting for this moment. Amber was turning 18 in two weeks, and I could hardly contain my excitement. These tapes were all she had left of the mother she couldn’t remember.
Nicole and I were college sweethearts. We married young, giddy with dreams of forever. When she became pregnant, we recorded everything—her growing belly, our whispered promises, her laughter as she talked to the baby who would soon arrive.
Then, when Amber was two, Nicole was killed by a drunk driver on her way home from visiting her mother. My world collapsed. I went through the motions of living, raising Amber as best as I could, but every day felt hollow.
Years later, I met Lauren at my sister’s birthday party. She was recently divorced, with grown kids of her own, and she understood pain and rebuilding in a way others couldn’t. We clicked. By the time Amber turned 13, I’d begun to feel alive again. Two years later, Lauren and I married. It felt like a new beginning.
Maybe I was wrong.
One night, I was in the closet, dusting off the box labeled “Nicole – Pregnancy.” I lifted one of the tapes—“Baby Talk – Month 7”—and ran my thumb over Nicole’s neat handwriting.
Lauren’s voice startled me. “What are you doing up there?”
“Just getting something ready for Amber’s birthday,” I said. “The big 18.”
Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “That’s nice. What are you planning?”
“Remember those tapes I told you about? The ones Nicole and I made during her pregnancy? I promised I’d give them to Amber when she turned eighteen.”
Her face tightened. “Is that really necessary, Nathan? It’s been sixteen years. Don’t you think it’s time to move on?”
That night, I lay awake. Lauren’s words echoed in my mind. Move on? Those tapes weren’t just memories—they were Amber’s only connection to her mother.
The next morning, Lauren was quiet, sipping tea at the kitchen table. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I just… sometimes feel like I’m living in her shadow.”
“You’re not,” I told her gently. “Nicole’s gone. You’re here.”
“She was perfect, wasn’t she? The beautiful designer, the perfect mother…” Tears filled her eyes. “I’ll never be her.”
“She wasn’t perfect,” I said softly. “But she was Amber’s mother. That will always matter.”
Lauren nodded, but her silence afterward felt uneasy, heavy.
The following evening, she asked to see the tapes. I hesitated, then agreed. I played one on the old VCR. Nicole appeared on the screen—radiant, round-bellied, her eyes full of joy. “Hello, little one,” she said, smiling. “This is your mom. I can’t wait to meet you.”
Lauren watched without speaking. “She was beautiful,” she said flatly.
“She was,” I replied.
“I’m going to bed,” she whispered, and left the room.
The next morning, I went to move the tapes into a sturdier box. But when I reached the shelf—they were gone.
I tore the closet apart. Nothing. Heart pounding, I ran to the living room.
“Lauren,” I said, trying to stay calm. “Have you seen the box of tapes?”
She didn’t look up from her magazine. “I threw them away.”
I froze. “You what?”
“I threw them away,” she repeated. “It’s time to move on, Nathan. They were keeping you stuck in the past.”
I stared at her, my voice shaking. “Those weren’t yours. They were Amber’s. They were Nicole’s.”
Her eyes flashed. “I’m her mother now—or at least I’m trying to be! But I can’t when her ghost is everywhere.”
“Where did you throw them?” I shouted.
“The garbage truck came this morning,” she said coldly. “They’re gone.”
I bolted outside, yanking open trash lids, tearing through bins, but it was too late. Everything had already been taken.
By the time I came back inside, my legs felt numb. Lauren was crying. I couldn’t look at her. I just walked out, got in my car, and drove until I ran out of tears.
When I returned hours later, Lauren was gone—her note said she’d gone to her sister’s “to give me space.”
That night, Amber came home early from her school trip. The moment she saw my face, she knew something was wrong.
“Dad?” she asked quietly. “What happened?”
I tried to speak, but my throat closed up. “I was going to give you something for your birthday. Your mom and I recorded tapes—messages for you. But… Lauren threw them away.”
Amber’s eyes widened. “She WHAT?”
“She thought it was time to move on.”
Amber’s voice trembled. “Move on from what? I never even got to start with her.”
Her words sliced straight through me.
Hours later, she knocked on my door. Her eyes were red but steady. “Dad, where does our trash go?”
“The city dump,” I said slowly. “Why?”
“Then that’s where we’re going.”
That night, under the harsh lights of the dumpyard, we dug through endless piles of garbage, the smell overwhelming. Then Amber gasped. “Dad—look!”
She held up a tape—muddy, dented, but still intact. “Baby’s First Kick,” the label read.
We found three more that night. Not all, but enough. Enough to bring her mother’s voice back.
Amber clutched the tapes to her chest. “Thank you, Dad. For not giving up.”
“I never will,” I said, my throat thick. “Not on her. Not on you.”
We watched the tapes together over the next few days—Nicole laughing, singing, whispering dreams for a baby girl she’d never meet. Amber cried, laughed, and whispered, “She has my laugh.”
When Lauren returned, she tried to apologize, but the air was ice-cold. Amber’s voice was sharp. “You can’t say sorry for something like that. You didn’t just throw away tapes—you threw away a part of my mom.”
Lauren turned to me, tears in her eyes. “Please, Nathan. Tell her I didn’t mean it.”
But I couldn’t. I just said, “You should stay with your sister a while longer.”
Amber’s birthday came quietly. Just us, my parents, and her best friend. Lauren wasn’t invited. After the candles, I handed Amber a small box.
Inside were the recovered tapes—and a flash drive.
“I had them digitized,” I said. “Now they’ll last forever.”
Amber threw her arms around me. “This is the best gift anyone’s ever given me.”
That night, we watched Nicole together, her laughter filling the room again. It felt like she’d come home.
Before bed, Amber turned to me and said, “Dad? What’s going to happen with Lauren?”
I sighed. “I don’t know, honey. Some things… once broken, can’t be fixed.”
Amber nodded thoughtfully. “Mom would want you to be happy. But she’d also want you to be with someone who honors her memory, not someone who tries to erase it.”
I smiled through the ache. “You get that wisdom from her.”
“No,” Amber said softly. “From both of you.”
Six months later, the divorce was finalized. Lauren moved back to her hometown. We spoke only about paperwork after that.
Amber went to college to study film—her mother’s passion. One night, she sent me a link to her first project. It was called Echoes.
It opened with footage from the tapes—Nicole’s smile, her hands resting on her stomach—and then cut to Amber, now grown, standing in the same spot, mirroring her mother’s movements.
“It’s about how love never really leaves us,” Amber said.
As I watched the film, my heart finally found peace. The tapes were damaged, yes—but the love inside them had survived.
Because love, unlike tape, can’t ever be erased.
