When the social worker phoned, she said it carefully, “He’s nine. He doesn’t talk. Most families pass.” I was 55. My husband had left years before — after my third miscarriage. He said he “couldn’t keep hoping for something that never came.” So when they asked if I could take in the boy nobody wanted, I agreed. He arrived with a single backpack and eyes that observed everything. He did not cry. He did not ask questions. He replied with nods or head shakes. People called him numb. I did not pressure him to speak. I offered patience and care. I cooked. Left notes. Sat beside him in silence. Spoke enough for the two of us. Read to him every night before bed.
Years went by. He began to sit nearer. He waited for me before crossing the street. When I fell ill one winter, I woke to a glass of water at my bedside. Still not a word. After five years, life without him felt impossible. He was special — not a loud love, but a steady one. So I filed to adopt. At the hearing, the judge smiled gently and told him, “Alan, you can just nod or shake your head. Do you understand me?” He nodded.
Then the judge pointed at me and asked, “Do you want this woman to adopt you?” My son remained motionless. Then he CLEARED HIS THROAT. The sound was rough — as if it hurt. The room went silent. And in a voice I had never heard before, he said: “Before I answer… I want to REVEAL something.”
