Jeremy stopped speaking the day of Janice’s funeral.
Not slowly. Not one word at a time.
I tried everything. Therapy. Art. Music. I read to Jeremy every night.
He simply stopped.
He stood beside me in his little black suit, his hand inside mine, and after that day, nothing.
I tried everything. Therapy. Art. Music. I read to Jeremy every night even when he stared at the ceiling and gave me nothing back but a blink.
Eight years passed.
He always sat at the far end of the table.
Jeremy turned thirteen in March. His teachers said he was brilliant. He just never spoke.
Every year on the anniversary of Janice’s death, I hosted a small family dinner. The blueberry pie she used to call « birthday pie » because she thought anything sweet deserved candles.
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