Milo never spoke much.
At six, he was diagnosed with autism, and for years, we heard only fragments—half-words, humming, and the soft plucking of his ukulele late into the night. It was how he regulated, how he connected to a world that often overwhelmed him. But names? Emotions? They didn’t come.
And my mother-in-law, Janice, tried so hard.
She’d show up every week with cinnamon muffins, hand-sewn puppets, tiny wind-up toys she found at estate sales. She never forced interaction, just gently placed them on the table and smiled. But every time, Milo would stay in the corner with his instrument, lost in his own rhythm, his own safety.
Until that one rainy evening.
Janice came in carrying an old record player she found in her attic. She said it had a lullaby on it that her own mother used to sing when she was a little girl. “Just thought I’d play it for you both,” she whispered, like she didn’t expect anyone to actually listen.
