They slept better in the same room.
They had whole conversations with their eyes that the rest of us could never quite decode.
Then my husband took them to the lake.
Only Jeremy came back.
My husband told me she slipped and the current took her.
He said he swam and swam and couldn’t reach her.
Her body was never found.
The police called it a tragic accident.
Jeremy stopped speaking the day of Janice’s funeral.
Not gradually. Not word by word trailing off.
He simply stopped.
He stood at her graveside in his small dark suit, holding my hand, and after that day — nothing.
The doctors had words for it.
Selective mutism, triggered by acute grief trauma.
I tried everything.
Therapy. Art. Music. A dog named after Janice’s favorite cartoon character.
I read to him every night, even when he just stared at the ceiling.
He answered with nods and gestures.
