Nineteen days after his funeral, our daughter was born. During fourteen exhausting hours of labor, I finally played the message. Mark’s familiar voice filled the room, telling me I was brave and that he was proud of me. I named her Nora June Carter, combining both names we had argued over. His mother, Joan, who had opposed his organ donation, eventually listened to her own recording.

Mark reminded her of the winter coat he had given to a boy who was cold, explaining that he was simply giving away a bigger coat this time. Joan finally understood, apologized to me, and began helping raise her granddaughter.