We’d waited so long to hear him say anything.
Luca was born with Down syndrome, and while he was the brightest light in our house, speech had been one of our biggest hurdles. We tried everything—therapy, sign language, flashcards, even puppets. Nothing stuck. By the time he was three, we were used to the quiet, the hums, the claps, and his sweet little giggle. But no words.
His big sister, Maris, never gave up on him. She’s six going on thirty, always talking to him like he’s just another kid at school. Reading him books, dragging him into her pretend games, even when he just blinked at her or clapped his hands. Lately, she’s been obsessed with this one Disney song—”You’ve Got a Friend in Me.” She sings it constantly, like it’s her personal anthem.
So last Tuesday, after dinner, she climbs onto the couch with Luca and starts singing it again, loud and dramatic. I was in the kitchen, half-listening while drying dishes.
And then I heard it.
A tiny, raspy voice, not hers.
I froze.
She stopped singing.
And then I heard it again.
“Fren.”
I dropped the towel.
Maris looked at me, her eyes huge, and she said, “Mom. He said friend.”
He looked so proud of himself. He clapped and leaned into her, giggling like he’d just pulled off the biggest magic trick in the world.
I didn’t even grab my phone. I just stood there crying like a total mess, dish soap still on my hands.
We’ve been trying to get him to say it again ever since. And yesterday, something happened when we were FaceTiming my mom.
My mom, who everyone calls Nana Bea, lives a few states away. She’s one of those unstoppable grandmas who always seems to have a fresh batch of cookies or a craft project waiting, even if it’s just virtually these days. We FaceTime every weekend so she can see the kids, especially Luca. She’s been our biggest supporter through all of his therapies and has never once stopped believing in his potential.
Yesterday, while we were on our usual call, Maris decided to sing that same Disney tune again. She’s got her toy microphone, trying to be all theatrical, spinning around in front of the phone propped up on the table. Luca was right beside her, slapping his hands on the rug in excitement. Nana Bea was watching, eyes sparkling through the screen. She sang along a little, but mostly, she just wanted to see Luca’s reaction.
Then Maris said, “Mom! Turn it off for a second.” By “it,” she meant the karaoke version of the song playing softly on my husband Erik’s phone. She insisted she could sing better a cappella. Erik, smiling in that proud-dad way, paused the track. Maris cleared her throat dramatically.
“You’ve got a friend in me,” she sang, in her best “look at me, I’m a superstar” voice.
And suddenly, there it was again: that tiny, raspy echo that made every hair on my arms stand up. Luca whispered, “Fren,” just like before. Then he tried adding a new sound, something like “Mee.”
He couldn’t get “me” perfectly, but we all lost it. I squealed so loud the phone tumbled off its prop, and the screen went flat on the table, giving us a nice view of the ceiling fan. My mom was shouting, “I heard that! I heard it!” from somewhere in the background. Maris and I threw our arms around Luca, who was clapping like he had just solved the biggest puzzle in history.
For the rest of the day, we tried coaxing him to say “friend in me,” or even “friend.” But you know toddlers—especially one with Down syndrome—the more you push, the less they cooperate. He just giggled and made faces, which was adorable but also a test of patience. Later that night, though, we got an even bigger surprise.
After Luca went to bed, Maris came into my room. She had this look on her face I’d never seen before—kind of worried, kind of excited. She said, “Mom, do you think Luca might talk more tomorrow?” That question hit me right in the heart. Maris lives for these moments with her brother, but I know she also wonders why it’s taking him so long to do things that come easily to other kids. I sat her down on the bed and said, “Sweetheart, even if it takes Luca a little longer, we celebrate every word, every sound. It might happen tomorrow, or it might happen next week. But he will get there.”
She smiled, and in her typical big-sister way, said, “I’ll just keep singing until he does.” She kissed my cheek and ran back to her room. That girl is unstoppable.
The next morning, we had what I like to call an “off” day. Luca was cranky because he didn’t sleep well; the neighbors’ dog barked half the night. Erik had some work emergency, so he was on his laptop, phone pinned between ear and shoulder, muttering something about spreadsheets and deadlines. Maris had spilled chocolate milk on her favorite shirt and was in a huff about it. No one was really in the mood for a sing-along.
But mid-morning, I heard Luca let out this frustrated whine from the living room. Sometimes, when he can’t communicate what he wants, he just sort of wails, and we have to guess. Is he hungry? Tired? Bored? This time, I realized he was pointing to the hall closet where we keep his snacks and board books. I asked, “Luca, do you want something?” He pointed, let out another whine, and then…I kid you not…he looked straight at me and said, “Gah.” Now, that might sound like nothing to most people, but for us, it was something new. It was definitely a new sound that seemed more intentional. I grabbed a book from the closet—his favorite about farm animals—and brought it over.
Maris heard the commotion and ran in. As soon as Luca saw her, he lit up like a Christmas tree. Without missing a beat, she started singing, “You’ve got a friend in me…”
He clapped, then tried his best to join. “Freh-nn…mee,” he got out, not perfect, but it was enough to make me tear up on the spot.
Erik, still on his work call, poked his head in from the kitchen. His jaw dropped. He mouthed, “Is he talking?” I nodded, tears streaming, trying to keep it together, though I was basically a flood of emotions.
Maris took Luca’s hand and said, “We’re best friends. Forever, right?” Luca just gave her that big grin and kind of repeated, “Freh.” It was like he had a vocabulary of one word, but that one word was enough to fill our hearts ten times over.
Here’s where a little twist came in—something that taught me a huge lesson about believing in Luca’s abilities. The next day, we had a meeting with his speech therapist, Donna, who’s known him since he was a baby. We hadn’t told her yet about his attempt at saying “friend,” because, well, we kind of wanted it to be a surprise. During the session, Donna started with the usual flashcards—pictures of simple objects like “ball,” “cat,” “apple.” Luca was bored, looking everywhere but the cards.
Then Maris, being Maris, started humming that tune again. She has zero shame about singing in front of anyone. Donna smiled. She loves Maris’s enthusiasm, so she said, “Go ahead, sing for us.” Maris started singing, and Luca’s eyes lit up. Suddenly, I saw his lips move.
“F-fren…Mee.”
Donna nearly dropped her stack of cards. She said, “That’s fantastic, Luca!” The look on her face was priceless. She’d been waiting for a breakthrough like this for months. She told us, “Music is such a powerful tool for speech development. Keep singing with him, keep associating words with songs, and I’m sure we’ll see more progress.”
Later that evening, we had an impromptu mini-celebration. I baked some brownies—though I’m not going to lie, they were from a box mix—and Erik whipped up a milkshake for Maris. We toasted to Luca’s new words. Maris asked him to sing again, and while he just clapped and said, “Fren,” it was enough to make us all cheer like he’d just won a gold medal.
I tucked both kids into bed that night, and Maris said to me, “Mom, I think Luca is starting to talk because he knows I love him.” That simple statement melted me. I told her, “You might be right. Love has a way of breaking down walls.”
I wanted to share this story not because I think every child’s journey will look exactly like Luca’s, but because we never know how close a breakthrough might be. Sometimes it’s a special therapy approach. Sometimes it’s just the right song at the right moment, delivered by the person who loves them most. In our case, it was both. Maris’s singing, combined with all the work we’ve done, finally lit a spark in Luca’s mind and heart.
Over the next few weeks, we noticed he tried more sounds. He’s not rattling off sentences, but he’s beginning to form more shapes with his mouth—like he’s really exploring what it means to speak. We still lean on sign language and gestures for a lot of communication, and we absolutely celebrate that. But every time Maris starts her Disney playlist, Luca’s eyes go bright. He taps his little feet, claps his hands, and tries to join in whenever he can.
There’s a life lesson tucked in here for all of us: Sometimes progress shows up when we least expect it. It can be hidden in the most ordinary moments—like your six-year-old singing her favorite Disney tune on the couch. We spend so much energy on structured methods, schedules, and timetables for improvement that we forget to leave room for simple, joyful connections. Love, laughter, and shared moments can open doors we never thought possible.
For anyone out there feeling like the silence or the struggle might never end, keep going. Keep singing, keep hugging, keep believing. Because you never know when that spark of recognition will lead to a word, and that word will blossom into a sentence. It may take time, and it may look different for every family, but it can happen, and it’s worth every single tear, every ounce of patience, and every shaky but triumphant first syllable.
In our home, that magic moment came from a sister’s song. And it reminds me that the best breakthroughs can come from love, not force.
If this story touched your heart, please share it with someone who might need a little hope today. And don’t forget to like this post—it might just reach a parent who’s waiting to hear their child’s very first word. Together, we can celebrate every victory, no matter how small. After all, you’ve got a friend in us.
