My Foster Son Never Spoke a Single Word – Until the Judge Asked Him One Question

“He saved it,” I muttered, tears filling my eyes.

I cooked and told him stories while I chopped vegetables. Little ones, like the time I broke my ankle chasing a runaway kitten, or how I once tried to bleach my hair and ended up with orange roots.

He never responded, but sometimes his shoulders shook just a little, like he was laughing quietly.

I pointed out the robins nesting on the porch, the shape of the clouds, and the song that reminded me of my mother. His silence never felt like rejection.

It felt like someone listening carefully, like they were trying to learn the language of being safe.

After a while, Alan started sitting closer during storytime. Eventually, he began waiting by the front door while I found my keys. If I forgot my scarf, he’d hand it to me without a word.

When I got sick that winter, I woke up groggy and aching, only to find a glass of water on the nightstand with a folded note beside it.

“For when you wake up.”

It was the first time I realized he watched over me, too.

Years passed.

Alan turned 12, then 13. The house grew warmer and slightly louder. He hummed while loading the dishwasher, moved quietly through the kitchen.

Once, when I sang off-key to Aretha Franklin, he smiled.

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