He swallowed and took a step closer, his small hands balled into fists at his sides.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I wanted to tell you before, but I was scared. Mom said if I ever talked to anyone, unless she said it was okay, something really bad would happen to you.”
My knees went weak. I fumbled for one of the kitchen chairs and sat down hard.
“All this time,” I whispered. “All these years…. You can talk?”
He nodded, solemn and serious.
“I can talk. I can read too. I just have to pretend I can’t when other people are around. Especially doctors. Mom says I have to act like I don’t understand things, or she’ll send me away to a special hospital.”
The words tumbled out in that small, steady voice I had dreamed of hearing and never once expected to.
I reached for him with shaking hands, pulling him close until I could feel the tremble in his shoulders and the quick hammer of his heart.
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