The first nights were the hardest. He woke up crying, disoriented, calling for no one by name. He flinched at sudden sounds. He hid food under his pillow. Once, when I raised my voice while talking on the phone, he covered his ears and slid under the table. That was the moment I understood how much damage silence and instability can do to a child who never had words to explain his fear.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, things changed. He started laughing at silly songs. He began to sleep through the night with the door cracked open. One evening, while we were watching a movie, he leaned against my shoulder without asking. It lasted only a second, but it felt like a lifetime. Trust doesn’t arrive loudly. It tiptoes in, afraid it might be sent away again.
