I tried everything I could think of.
Therapy.
Art.
Music.
I wanted Jeremy to have different ways to express whatever he couldn't put into words.
I never wanted him to feel that speaking was something he had to do to make me happy.
So I learned to listen to him differently.
I watched his expressions.
I paid attention to his gestures.
I learned the difference between his yes and his no.
Sometimes a small movement told me more than a long conversation might have.
I also brought a dog into our home.
We named the dog after Janice's favorite cartoon character.
I hoped having an animal around might bring some happiness back into the house.
I wanted Jeremy to have something to care for.
Something that could make him smile without asking him questions.
I didn't know whether it would help.
I only knew I needed to keep trying.
Every night, I read to him.
Sometimes I sat beside his bed and read for a long time.
Sometimes I finished a story while he stared toward the ceiling.
I kept reading anyway.
I wanted him to hear a familiar voice.
I wanted bedtime to remain something steady.
Something that hadn't been taken away.
He never asked me to stop.
But he never spoke either.
Years passed.
One birthday became another.
The little boy who had stood beside me at his sister's funeral began growing taller.
His face changed.
His clothes changed.
His childhood slowly moved into adolescence.
But the silence stayed.
Jeremy turned thirteen in March.
Thirteen.
I sometimes struggled to connect that tall boy with the five-year-old who had once held my hand at the graveside.
He was no longer a little child.
He had grown into someone who could sit quietly in a room and make everyone aware of his presence.
His teachers spoke highly of him.
They said he paid attention.
They said he was thoughtful.
They said he was one of the most attentive students they had ever taught.
He understood what was happening around him.
He followed lessons.
He communicated when necessary.
But he didn't speak.
Eight years.
Eight years without hearing my son say a single word.
I had learned to live with that silence, although I never stopped wishing it would end.
Every year, when the anniversary of Janice's death arrived, I invited our family to gather at the house.
It was something I continued doing because I didn't want her memory to disappear into the past.
I placed her photograph on the mantel.
I arranged her favorite flowers on the table.
The people who loved her came together.
We remembered the little girl who had been part of our lives.
And every year, Jeremy was there.
He never spoke during those gatherings.
He listened.
He watched.
Sometimes I caught him looking at Janice's photograph.
I never forced him to explain what he was thinking.
I had learned not to demand words from him.
This year was no different at first.
My husband came, as he always did.
He sat at the far end of the dinner table.
He didn't look directly at Jeremy.
Jeremy noticed him immediately.
I noticed Jeremy noticing him.
That was something I couldn't ignore.
My husband remained quiet.
He rarely stayed long during these gatherings.
He usually left before dessert.
I had grown accustomed to that arrangement.
But Jeremy seemed especially aware of his father that evening.
He watched him from the moment he entered the room.
I tried to concentrate on the family gathering.
The photograph was in its usual place.
The flowers were arranged.
Everyone had a seat.
Dinner began.
The conversation remained subdued.
Nobody wanted to say the wrong thing.
Nobody wanted to make the evening harder than it already was.
We were halfway through the meal when I heard something against a plate.
Jeremy had put down his fork.
I turned toward him.
He wasn't looking at his food anymore.
He was looking around the table.
First at me.
Then at his grandparents.
Then his eyes moved toward the other end.
Toward his father.
I watched him carefully.
He seemed to have made a decision.
Then he lifted his hand.
He pointed directly at the man who had taken him and his sister to the lake eight years earlier.
My husband stopped moving.
Jeremy opened his mouth.
And for the first time since Janice's funeral, my son was about to use his voice.
Click here to continue reading: PART 5: The First Sound From My Son’s Mouth Was Quiet, But What He Said Changed the Entire Room
Eleven Minutes Apart, Two Children Who Seemed to Understand Each Other Without Ever Needing the Rest of Us
Part 4 of 20
