And yet, he feels. He loves.
He laughs at music. He hugs me when I cry. He runs his tiny hand along my face to comfort me. Without a single word—he speaks volumes.
One morning, as I tried to calm him at the bus stop, a kind voice said: “Can I help?”
I looked up. A woman, perhaps in her forties, smiling warmly. She helped us onto the bus. We began talking.
Her name was Vera. She also had a child with developmental disabilities. He was seventeen now. He never spoke, but he communicated—with gestures, with a tablet, with love.
“It all started with pain,” she told me. “But then I realized: normal is what we create ourselves.”
