“Hello, dear,” I said, reaching out a hand in greeting. “Hi, Alan. My name is Sylvie.”
He didn’t grasp my hand. He simply stepped past me and perched on the very edge of the sofa. I offered him some cocoa and a plate of treats. He gave a small nod, the faintest trace of a smile touching his face.
He simply hovered at the entrance, scanning the room as if he were memorizing every possible way out.
And so, our journey began.
I spent that first evening reading to him. He never looked directly at me, but he stayed in the room. For me, that was a victory.
I never pressured Alan to talk. I simply existed alongside him, ensuring there was plenty of room for his voice whenever he felt like using it.
I filled his lunchbox with little handwritten messages, never anticipating a reply. Some were just silly anecdotes—stories about the neighborhood squirrels trying to raid my garden. Others were more heartfelt.
I never pressured Alan to talk.
“I am so incredibly proud of you.”
“You are doing a wonderful job, Alan.”
