There’s a possibility he might not, or perhaps he simply cannot. This dilemma has sparked countless discussions, and even today, opinions vary widely. Yet, the reality remains: my son does not speak.
At one year old, he was deemed perfectly “normal.” By age two, he was labeled a “late bloomer”—a term I learned to despise. Who decides when a child “blooms”? How can they know his potential?
At two and a half, other kids were chatting away, filling their parents with pride. I often witnessed groups of parents gathering to compare their children’s vocabulary, exchanging numbers like a competition. Amidst this, my son remained quietly observant.
“Ten words!” boasted one excited mom, while another whispered, “Five words.” Then, silence would fall as both parents turned their attention back to their children. Moments later, the girl from the first family would storm over, tantruming despite her mother’s earlier pride in her vocabulary. I observed with a mix of empathy and sadness, knowing my son remained unaffected by the chaos around him.
I look down at him, those deep brown eyes searching for my gaze. He smiles when I meet his eyes, then shifts his focus to my bag. “Are you ready to go?” Silence. A slight furrow appears on his brow, but he continues to lock his eyes on mine.
“Are you hungry?” No response.
“Do you want a drink?” A small tug on the bag followed by a soft, incomprehensible sound. A win.
He settles beside me on the bench, sipping his juice while watching the other kids play. Two older boys dominate a metal bridge, jumping down to block a little girl. As she cries, I feel my son’s body tense beside me. The juice box drops, and he covers his ears, his face contorted in distress. It’s painful to witness; he cannot find the words to express his fear. Meanwhile, the parents of the boys glance at us with disdain. Their kids may be troublemakers, but at least they’re “normal.”
Later, when bedtime arrives, he seems at peace in my arms, heavy and quiet. As I lay him down, he gazes up at me without a sound. I sit in the kitchen, and soon I hear him murmur softly through the baby monitor. Those indistinct sounds, resembling whispered words, fill me with hope. He does this each night when he thinks he’s alone.
The next morning, I’m stirred by a soft growl at my bedside—his way of telling me I’ve overslept. “Go play, I’ll be there soon,” I reply. I hear him scamper down the hall, followed by a thump as he occupies the living room with his toys. I drift back to sleep.
When I awaken again, a small cold hand grips mine. He’s trying to pull me up, but I mumble for a moment longer. He releases my hand, but soon I hear the fridge creaking open. I stretch, preparing to rise when a loud crash jolts me. I sprint to the kitchen just as the screams erupt.
There he is—arms flailing, hands still curled as if he’s holding something. On the floor, a carton of twelve cracked eggs spills across the linoleum. Panic fills his eyes as he stands frozen. I gather him into my arms, hoping to instill him with calm. “It’s okay,” I whisper. “You’re safe now.”
Doctors and therapists continue to visit, each labeling my son’s condition with various terms. Yet, only he and I understand the truth that lies beneath the surface—there are no words for what we endure.
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In summary, navigating life with a nonverbal child is filled with challenges and moments of silent understanding. Each day brings its own struggles, yet the bond we share transcends words.
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