“A house can,” she said softly, “if grief is the loudest thing living in it.”
She recommended a developmental specialist trained in early childhood trauma, more floor time, music, outdoor play, flexible routines, and perhaps, she added with surgical calm, therapy for me.
I almost dismissed her for that.
Instead I nodded.
Because the horrifying thing was that by then I already believed her.
That afternoon I tried, awkwardly and badly, to join Valerie and the boys on the floor. I took off my jacket because Valerie told me I looked like I was about to acquire a company, not build a tower.
Theo stared at my rolled shirtsleeves as if I had committed a breach of identity. Leo crawled toward me, grabbed my tie, and yanked.
It was the first time either of them had initiated contact with me outside a feeding chair.
I looked at Valerie.
She did not smile or offer me a congratulatory glance. She simply said, “Don’t make it a big deal.”
“I’m not.”
“You are in your face.”
“I don’t know how to do this.”
That changed something in her expression. Not enough to soften it, but enough to make it human instead of armored.
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