The Language I Could Never Forget
To everyone else, it probably looked like panic.
To me, it was instantly clear.
She was signing.
My heart skipped.
My younger sister had been born deaf. Growing up, sign language wasn’t optional in our house—it was survival. Even after she passed, the language stayed etched into my memory.
I lowered myself onto one knee, ignoring the protest in my joints. Gently, I steadied her shaking hands.
You’re safe, I signed slowly.
What happened?
A small, broken sound escaped her throat. She realized I understood.
Her hands moved faster now. Urgent. Disordered.
Man put Mommy in camper.
Mommy won’t wake up.
He locked me in the car.
I broke the window.
He is here.
He’s coming.
Ice rushed through my veins.
