PART 3 – At Her Funeral, My Five-Year-Old Son Held My Hand and Made a Choice None of Us Understood

Janice's funeral was a day I never wanted to remember.

But I remembered it.

I remembered Jeremy standing beside me.

He wore a small dark suit.

His hand was inside mine.

He was so little that his fingers barely filled my palm.

I kept looking down at him.

I wondered what he understood.

I wondered whether he was waiting for someone to explain that his sister was coming back.

I wondered whether he still expected to see her beside him.

He didn't speak.

Not during the funeral.

Not afterward.

At first, I didn't understand the importance of that silence.

I thought he was overwhelmed.

I thought he needed time.

He had lost the person who had been beside him since the moment he was born.

What five-year-old could possibly know how to deal with something like that?

But the silence continued.

Days passed.

Then more days.

Jeremy didn't start speaking again.

He didn't gradually become quieter.

He didn't slowly lose interest in conversations.

He simply stopped using his voice.

I tried talking to him.

I asked ordinary questions.

I told him what we were doing that day.

I asked whether he wanted something to eat.

I tried to make our home feel familiar.

He responded in other ways.

A nod.

A movement of his hand.

A look that told me whether he understood.

Sometimes he would point toward something he wanted.

He could communicate.

But he wouldn't speak.

And that frightened me.

I took him to doctors.

They examined him and tried to understand what had happened.

Eventually, I was given an explanation.

Selective mutism associated with severe grief and trauma.

I held on to those words.

Perhaps because a medical explanation made the situation feel less impossible.

Perhaps because I needed to believe there was a way forward.

I wanted my son to speak again.

Not because I needed to hear his voice for myself.

I wanted him to have the childhood he deserved.

I wanted him to laugh without looking as though something was missing.

I wanted him to tell me about his day.

I wanted to hear him say his sister's name.

Most of all, I wanted him to feel safe enough to speak.

But nothing changed quickly.

And I learned that wanting something desperately didn't mean I could make it happen.

I also learned that grief didn't look the same in everyone.

I cried.

Jeremy became silent.

I wanted to talk about Janice.

He seemed unable to.

I wanted to help him remember the good things.

I didn't know whether remembering hurt him more.

So I kept trying.

I didn't stop.

I couldn't.

Click here to continue reading: PART 4: Eight Birthdays Passed Without Hearing His Voice, Until One Family Gathering Made Me Notice Something Different