When Sylvie opens her home to a silent nine-year-old boy, she doesn’t expect him to speak. But over the years, something deeper begins to bloom between them, something built in quiet gestures, small kindnesses, and a love that asks for nothing. Until one day, in court, he finally finds his voice.
I didn’t say yes because I thought I could fix him.
I said yes because the house had been too quiet for too long, and I knew that kind of silence.
His was different, though, more watchful, more haunted…
Mine came from grief. His came from something I wasn’t supposed to ask about.
“He’s nine,” the social worker had said, pausing just long enough for it to land. “He doesn’t talk, Sylvie.
At all. And to be truly honest with you, most families pass.”
“I’m not most families, Estella,” I told her.
I didn’t need more noise. I needed someone who understood silence and who wanted to be loved through it all.
After three miscarriages and a husband who said he “couldn’t keep hoping for something that never came,” I’d learned to live with absence.
When he left, he took the last of my expectation with him.
But not my capacity for love. That stayed with me.
And eventually, it asked for somewhere to go.
I didn’t wake up one day with the answer. It was slower than that.
I started by volunteering at the library’s story hour, then packing food hampers for the shelter. I told myself I was just keeping busy, but one afternoon, I found myself holding a little boy’s jacket he’d left behind, and I didn’t want to let go.
That was the moment I knew.
I filed the paperwork a week later. The training classes took time.
So did the background checks; but when the binder arrived in the mail — thick and hopeful — I held it to my chest like a heartbeat.
“All you need to do now… is wait,” I told myself in the mirror. “Your little one will come, Sylvie.”
So when they called and asked if I could foster the boy nobody wanted, I said yes without a second thought.
Little Alan arrived with one small backpack and the kind of eyes that made people uncomfortable.
He didn’t cry or flinch. He just stood in the doorway, staring like he was cataloging the exits.
“Hi, sweetheart,” I said, holding out my hand. “Hi, Alan.
I’m Sylvie.”
He didn’t take it. He just walked past me and sat down on the edge of the couch. I offered him hot cocoa and cookies.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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