And what I saw made the air leave my lungs.
Noah was sitting on the floor.
Not in his therapy chair. Not in his bed.
On the carpet.
Next to him knelt Maria, the caregiver who had been with us for years. But her expression wasn’t the calm, professional one she always wore.
It was tense.
Worried.
They both froze the moment they saw me.
Maria quickly shifted her body, as if trying to block something lying between them on the floor.
Something she clearly didn’t want me to see.
“What’s happening here?” I asked.
Maria stood abruptly. “Mr. Bennett… we didn’t expect you back yet.”
Her voice sounded tight.
Noah whimpered softly and reached toward the object she was hiding.
“Not now, sweetheart,” she whispered to him.
That only deepened my suspicion.
“Maria,” I said firmly. “Move.”
She hesitated… then stepped aside.
On the carpet lay a small wooden horse.
Broken.
One of its legs had snapped off.
At first I didn’t understand why it mattered.
But then I saw the way Noah was looking at it.
His gaze wasn’t distracted or confused the way the doctors often described.
It was focused.
Determined.
Almost protective.
“What is this?” I asked.
“Just a toy,” Maria replied quickly.