Weeks passed like that.
Every morning, I tucked a note into his lunchbox.
“Don’t forget—today is a good day.”
“Proud of you, always.”
“One day, I’m going to win an award for best sandwiches. You’ll see.”
Most of them never came back.
Until one evening, I found a note carefully folded on the kitchen counter.
I picked it up slowly, my fingers trembling.
“He kept it…” I whispered to myself.
One night while cooking, I laughed suddenly.
“Did I ever tell you I once tried to dye my hair at home?” I said, stirring the pot. “It turned bright orange. I looked like a traffic cone.”
Alan sat at the table, quiet as always.
“I didn’t leave the house for a week,” I continued. “I was convinced people would need sunglasses just to look at me.”
For a second, I saw it.
His shoulders moved.
A quiet, almost invisible laugh.
I didn’t say anything.
I just kept cooking.
Over time, he started sitting closer.
Then he waited by the door when I grabbed my keys.
One morning, I stepped outside and forgot my scarf.
Before I could go back, he tapped my arm and handed it to me.
“Thank you,” I said softly.
He just looked away.
But he stayed beside me.
One winter, I got sick.
When I woke up, there was a glass of water on my nightstand and a folded piece of paper.
I opened it slowly.
“For when you wake up.”
I pressed it to my chest.
“You’re taking care of me now?” I whispered, smiling through tears.
From the doorway, he stood there quietly… watching.
Years passed.
People kept asking.
“He still doesn’t talk?”
“Have you tried more therapy?”
“Don’t you think something’s wrong?”
I would just smile and say, “He’ll speak when he feels safe.”
The night I brought up adoption, I kept my voice calm.
“If you want me to make it official, Alan… I will,” I said. “You don’t have to say anything. Just nod.”
He looked at me for a long time.
Long enough that my heart started to race.
Then, slowly… he nodded.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
“Okay,” I whispered. “That’s all I needed.”
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