She sat down next to him and began to whisper in a low, conspiratorial tone. My son’s face immediately tensed, his eyes darting to the door, hoping perhaps that I would miraculously appear. It was a heartbreaking sight, seeing him so distressed.
I strained to hear what she was saying, but the words were muffled. However, her tone was unmistakably severe and demanding. My heart sank as I realized this was more than just forgetfulness or fatigue — something was seriously wrong. I quietly slid out of the closet, my mind racing with what to do next.
After my mother left the room to make tea, I approached my son cautiously, not wanting to startle him. His little body was curled in on itself, as if trying to shield himself from the world. Sitting down beside him, I whispered, “It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m here.”
