I kept my late wife’s memory alive with old videotapes—her voice, her laugh, her love. They were meant to be a gift for our daughter Amber on her 18th birthday. But when I went to get them from the closet… they were gone. I asked my new wife, and her answer shattered me. I stood there, frozen. Heartbroken. In tears.
Those tapes had been in a plain cardboard box on the highest shelf in my closet for almost 16 years. I never touched them, never even looked at them, just waited. Waited for the right time. And now the right time was almost here. Amber’s 18th birthday was just two weeks away. I had imagined the moment a hundred times—her watching her mother’s face, hearing her voice for the first time. The mother she couldn’t even remember.
Nicole, my first wife, was the love of my youth. We met in college, and from day one, it was like something clicked. We were wild about each other. We got married young, and when she got pregnant with Amber, we were over the moon. We wanted to capture every moment. So we used our old camcorder constantly—Nicole’s belly growing, our little jokes, our late-night talks to the baby in her stomach.
But the happiness didn’t last long.
Amber was just two years old when Nicole died. A drunk driver ran a red light and hit her car. She’d been driving back from her mother’s house. One moment she was here, the next… gone. My whole world crashed. I was lost. Grieving and trying to raise a toddler at the same time. It nearly broke me. I didn’t date. I couldn’t.
Then, five years ago, I met Lauren at my sister’s birthday party. Amber was thirteen, and for the first time in years, I felt like I could breathe again. Lauren had her own pain—she was recently divorced, had two grown kids in college. She got it. She knew what it meant to start over.
Two years later, we got married. Our families blended, and for a while, it felt like life had given me a second chance.
But maybe I was wrong.
One evening, I went up to the closet and gently pulled one of the tapes out of the box. My fingers brushed over the label, written in Nicole’s neat handwriting: Baby talk – Month 7.
Suddenly, I heard a voice behind me. “What are you doing up there?”
It was Lauren, standing in the doorway, arms crossed.
“Just getting ready for Amber’s birthday,” I replied, carefully placing the tape back. “The big 1-8.”
Lauren smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “That’s nice. What are you planning?”
“Remember those videotapes I told you about? The ones Nicole and I made during her pregnancy? I promised I’d give them to Amber when she turned 18.”
Her expression changed. The smile disappeared, replaced by something… distant. Maybe anger. Maybe jealousy.
“Is that really necessary, Nathan? It’s been sixteen years. Don’t you think it’s time to move on?”
That night, I tossed and turned. Her words wouldn’t leave my head. Didn’t she understand? Those tapes weren’t just dusty home videos. They were history. They were love. They were Amber’s only way to meet her mother.
The next morning, I found Lauren sipping tea in the kitchen.
“I’m sorry about earlier,” she said quietly, staring into her mug. “I just sometimes feel like I’m living in a shadow.”
I sat down across from her. “Nicole’s been gone for sixteen years, Lauren. You’re not in her shadow.”
“But she was perfect, wasn’t she?” Her voice trembled. “A model. A fashion designer. The flawless mom. Everything I’m not.”
“She wasn’t perfect,” I said gently. “No one is. But she was Amber’s mom. And those tapes… that’s all Amber has of her.”
Tears welled up in Lauren’s eyes. “And what about me? What am I to Amber?”
“You’re her stepmother. You’ve been with us for five years. That matters.”
“But it’s not the same, right?” she whispered. “I’ll never be Nicole.”
I reached for her hand. “I don’t want you to be Nicole. I love you for who you are.”
“Do you really?”
“Yes.” I hugged her and kissed the top of her head. But inside, I felt uneasy. This wasn’t the first time Lauren reacted like this whenever Nicole came up. I kept thinking time would help… but I never imagined what would happen next.
The following morning, everything felt… normal. Lauren made breakfast, gave Amber a big hug before she left for a school trip in the mountains, and even kissed me goodbye.
At the door, she held my arm. “About last night… I’m sorry. I was being ridiculous.”
“It’s okay,” I said, relieved. “We all have our moments.”
She smiled. “Can I see the tapes when you come back? I’d like to understand better.”
I hesitated. But then I nodded. We were a family now, and I didn’t want to keep secrets.
That evening, I brought the box down. We dusted off the old VCR and played one of the tapes. Nicole’s glowing face filled the screen. Her belly round, her eyes sparkling.
“Hello, little one,” she said warmly. “This is your mom. I can’t wait to meet you.”
I watched Lauren out of the corner of my eye. She looked calm. Cold, almost.
“She was beautiful,” she said, voice flat.
“Yes, she was,” I replied.
“I’m going to bed. Don’t stay up too late.”
She left. Just like that. I stayed up watching Nicole smile and laugh, her voice filling the room like sunlight.
The next morning, I decided to move the tapes into a nicer box. The old one was falling apart, and I wanted it to be perfect for Amber.
But when I opened the closet—my heart stopped.
The box was gone.
I tore the place apart. Under the bed. Every closet. Even the attic.
Gone.
I found Lauren calmly flipping through a magazine in the living room.
“Have you seen the box of videotapes?” I asked, panic rising.
She didn’t even look at me. “I threw them away.”
“You WHAT?”
“I threw them away. It’s time to move on, Nathan. Those tapes were holding you back… holding all of us back.”
“They weren’t yours to throw away! They were Amber’s! They were her mother’s!”
Lauren finally looked at me, eyes cold. “I’m her mother now. Or at least I’m trying to be. But it’s impossible with Nicole’s ghost always hovering over us.”
I couldn’t breathe. “Where did you throw them? Maybe we can still—”
“The garbage truck came this morning. They’re gone.”
I ran outside. Checked the dumpster. Empty. Checked the street bins. All gone.
I stood there shaking. Rage. Grief. Shock.
I don’t remember much after that. I remember yelling. Lauren crying—loud, gasping sobs. I grabbed my keys and drove for hours, not knowing where I was going.
When I came home, the house was dark. A note on the table read: “I’m staying at my sister’s for a few days. To give you space.”
I collapsed onto the couch. How was I going to tell Amber?
Just then, the door opened.
Amber walked in, backpack slung over her shoulder. She looked tired from the trip but smiled when she saw me.
“Dad? What’s wrong?”
I swallowed hard. “There was something I was going to give you for your birthday. Something special.”
She set her backpack down. “Yeah?”
I took a deep breath. “Your mom and I made video tapes when she was pregnant with you. We talked to you. Laughed. Promised things. I saved them all these years.”
Her eyes lit up. “You have tapes of Mom?”
“Had. Lauren threw them away.”
Her face dropped. “WHAT? Why would she do that?!”
“She said it was time to move on.”
Amber’s voice cracked. “I’ve never even had the chance to know her. How can I move on from someone I never knew?”
Tears ran down my face. “I’m so sorry, Amber. I failed you.”
“No, Dad. You didn’t fail me. Lauren did.”
That night, Amber knocked on my door. Her eyes were red but steady.
“Dad, where does our trash go?”
“The city dump. Why?”
“Then that’s where we’re going.”
We drove across town to the dumpyard. I handed the gatekeeper a $50 bill. He let us in. Under flickering lights, with gloves and scarves to block the stench, we dug. Hours passed. My back ached. But then—
“Dad!” Amber cried. “I found one!”
She held up a dusty tape. The label barely readable: Baby’s first kick.
We screamed with joy. We kept digging. We found three more. Not all of them—but enough.
On the way home, Amber held them tight. “Thank you for not giving up, Dad.”
“I’ll never give up on you. Or your mom’s memory.”
Over the next few days, we watched the tapes together. Some were damaged. But most still worked. Amber soaked up every second of her mother’s voice.
“She had my laugh,” she whispered once.
“Yes, she did,” I said, holding her close.
When Lauren came back from her sister’s, the house felt cold.
“I wasn’t thinking,” she said. “I was just so jealous. I felt like I could never measure up.”
“You’re right,” Amber said, voice like ice. “You can’t. Because she would never have done something so cruel.”
Lauren’s voice trembled. “Amber, please. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t fix what you did.”
Lauren looked at me. “Nathan. Please. Tell her I’m sorry.”
I stared at her. “I think you should go back to your sister’s. We all need space.”
Amber’s birthday came. We had a small celebration—just me, Amber, my parents, and her best friend.
After the cake, I handed Amber a little wrapped box.
“What’s this?”
“Open it.”
Inside were the rescued tapes. And a flash drive.
“I had them digitized. So you’ll always have them.”
Amber started crying. “Thank you, Dad. This means everything to me.”
That night, she paused at her door.
“Dad? What’s going to happen with Lauren?”
I sighed. “I don’t know. What she did… it’s hard to forgive.”
Amber nodded. “Mom would want you to be happy. But not with someone who disrespects her memory.”
“When did you get so wise?”
“I get it from my mom.”
A week later, I met Lauren at a coffee shop.
“I’ve been thinking,” I said.
“I’m so sorry, Nathan. I was just so jealous and insecure and—”
“Lauren,” I cut her off. “I understand jealousy. But what I don’t understand is cruelty.”
She looked down. “It was unforgivable.”
“Yes. It was.”
She looked up. “What are you saying?”
“I think we need to end this. Not just because of what you did. But because of what it showed me about who we are together.”
“Please. I’ll get therapy. I’ll make it up to Amber.”
“Some things can’t be fixed.”
She cried. “I love you.”
“I know. But sometimes, love isn’t enough.”
Six months later, our divorce was final. Lauren moved back to her hometown.
Amber, inspired by the tapes, started studying film in college.
One night, she called me. “Dad, I’ve been working on something. I want to show you.”
It was a short film. A blend of Nicole’s old clips with new footage of Amber in the same spots—doing the same things.
“It’s called Echoes,” she said. “It’s about how love lives on in us.”
I watched it, tears in my eyes. Nicole’s smile fading into Amber’s, the two of them connected through time.
The tapes were just plastic.
But the love? That was forever.
And no one could ever throw that away.
