I gave my consent because my house had been draped in a heavy, lingering stillness for far too long, and I was intimately familiar with that kind of void. His silence, however, was distinct—it was more observant, more haunted by shadows…
My quiet was born of heartbreak. His was born of a history I wasn’t permitted to investigate.
I didn’t agree to this because I believed I could repair his spirit.
“The boy is nine,” the case worker had mentioned, letting the weight of the number settle in the air. “He doesn’t utter a word, Sylvie. None at all. To be perfectly candid, most prospective parents look elsewhere.”
“I am not like most families, Estella,” I replied firmly.
I wasn’t looking for more noise in my life. I was looking for a soul who understood the weight of silence and who sought to be cherished right through it.
“I am not like most families, Estella.”
Following three lost pregnancies and a partner who claimed he “couldn’t keep wishing for a miracle that never arrived,” I had become accustomed to living with empty spaces.
