“We’ve been everywhere,” he said. “Doctors here. Specialists across the country. They can’t find anything wrong. Nothing physical.”

He paused.

“She hasn’t spoken in three years.”

Naomi felt her chest tighten.

She had grown up learning that silence could be a shield. That sometimes children stopped speaking not because they couldn’t, but because it felt safer not to.

This wasn’t an illness.

She knew it.

The Soup That Felt Like Safety

Without asking permission, Naomi turned toward the kitchen.

She made chicken soup the way her mother used to on nights when fear sat heavier than hunger. Slow. Gentle. Careful. As if the act itself mattered.

As the broth simmered, Naomi couldn’t stop thinking about the child’s eyes.

They weren’t empty.

They were waiting.

When she returned to the table, Jonathan was leaning forward, whispering into his phone.

“No, Evelyn, I’m not taking her home yet,” he said quietly. “She needs to eat. She needs calm. Yes… she’s my daughter.”

He ended the call and pressed the phone to his forehead, like he was holding himself together.