When the doctor told us our newborn daughter was profoundly deaf, I didn’t cry.
Not at first.
I nodded, held her tighter, and smiled. But that night, in the hospital bathroom, I broke down. I cried because I was scared—not for me, but for her. How would she connect? How would she make friends? Would she feel isolated? Would she ever hear me say “I love you”?
It turns out, I didn’t need to say it out loud.
When Lily turned one, I signed “I love you” with trembling fingers. She looked up, touched my cheek, and signed it back.
In that moment, I realized something:
She’s not missing sound. I was missing stillness.
She taught me how to listen—not with my ears, but with my eyes, my heart, my presence.
Today, Lily is five, sassy, and fluent in American Sign Language. And I’ve never heard a more beautiful “I love you” than the one she signs to me every night before bed.