I couldn’t afford to collapse. Not for a single day. Not for a single minute.
My son cannot speak. He cannot feed himself, dress himself, ask for water, or tell me what hurts. His cries aren’t whims—they’re his only voice.
Nights are sleepless. Days are filled with therapies, massages, gymnastic sessions, endless appointments. I keep a journal so I won’t forget medications, reactions, progress.
I work at night—remote jobs, odd tasks for pennies—anything to survive. We live on benefits and hope.
I am no longer just a woman.
Not a daughter.
Not a friend.
I am a mother.
His mother.
His world.
One day at the store, a sudden noise frightened him. He cried loudly, desperately. People stared. A woman whispered to her husband, not quietly enough: “Why do they have children like that?”
I left my cart half full, my hands shaking, tears streaming down my face.
At the clinic, another doctor dismissed us coldly: “Do you still hope he’ll talk? That’s unrealistic. Accept reality.”
But how do you accept it, when your heart breaks every single day?
