“For now, you’ll stay here. Don’t worry; Nathan won’t find you. I’ve arranged for a doctor. I believe you can recover,” Wilfred said gently.
I nodded. His words ignited a faint glimmer of hope in my otherwise bleak life. The next day, I started treatment for my speech disorder. I had been trying to recover from my muteness since it was first diagnosed, but every attempt had ended in failure. I had long since given up hope. Yet Wilfred hadn’t given up on me—not even when Nathan and I had. The thought filled me with guilt.
Every day, I attended therapy sessions to practice speaking and communicating. Wilfred accompanied me without fail. He stayed by my side, encouraging me through language and communication exercises. Every small improvement brought him immense joy. Even when I managed to utter unclear, garbled sounds, he would beam with pride.
After what felt like an eternity of practice, I was finally able to say a complete sentence, though it came out haltingly and unevenly.
One day, after weeks of practice, Wilfred came to me with hands behind his back.
“Look, if you can say a sentence, I’ll give you a present,” he teased.