At first, I believed Jeremy’s voice would return after the shock had passed.
Days became weeks.
Weeks became months.
I took him to child psychologists, grief counselors, speech specialists, and trauma therapists. Some believed he was unable to speak. Others believed he was choosing silence because speaking felt unsafe.
None of them could tell me what he feared.
We tried drawing exercises. Music therapy. Journaling. Games designed to help children express difficult memories.
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.
