Jeremy participated when asked, but he revealed almost nothing.
At night, I sat beside his bed and read stories aloud. Sometimes I paused deliberately, hoping he might finish a familiar sentence.
He never did.
On difficult evenings, I told him about Janice.
I reminded him how she once wore rain boots to bed because she believed a storm might flood the hallway. I told him about the time she called blueberry pie “birthday pie” because, in her opinion, anything sweet enough deserved candles.
Jeremy usually stared at the ceiling.
But whenever I mentioned his sister, his eyes changed.
There was love in them.
There was also fear.
As the years passed, teachers discovered that Jeremy was exceptionally intelligent. He communicated through writing, gestures, and an electronic tablet. He completed his schoolwork quickly and read books far beyond his grade level.
Yet he remained silent.
His silence followed him everywhere.
It sat beside him in classrooms.
It stood between him and other children.
It filled every room in our home.
My marriage to Zane slowly collapsed beneath the weight of grief. We never screamed at each other. In some ways, that would have been easier.
Instead, we became strangers who spoke only about practical matters.
Jeremy’s appointments.
Household expenses.
School schedules.
Zane moved out when Jeremy was nine. The separation was quiet, just like everything else in our family had become.
