The air felt heavy as I sat in the corner of the courtroom, waiting for the proceedings to begin.
It was one of those spaces that seemed to absorb sound, leaving only the hushed whispers of anticipation behind.
Thomas, my nine-year-old foster son, sat next to me, his small frame dwarfed by the wooden bench.
He was silent as ever, his eyes focused on some invisible point just beyond the room’s confines.
I had gotten used to his silence over the past year.
It was a quiet we never tried to fill, a mutual understanding born out of necessity.
People often asked if it was difficult, not hearing a single word from him.
They assumed it must feel isolating, but I knew better.
His silence spoke volumes.
There were days when he would communicate with a simple nod, a slight shift in posture, or a fleeting smile that brightened his face like a sunrise.
