From the time my eldest was little,
we never really heard him call us “Papa” or “Mama” in the way most parents do.
Aside from his speech delay, nothing else seemed out of the ordinary.
But something in me kept whispering:
Maybe we should check... just to be sure.
So, we arranged to meet a speech therapist.
She gently suggested we see a developmental pediatrician.
And so began the long, agonizing wait.
Every call we made was met with the same reply:
“Our waiting list is very long.
We’ll place your child on it, and contact you when there’s an update.”
Day after day,
I chased every number, called every clinic,
hoping—desperately—for a sooner appointment.
Each day felt like a year.
Eventually, we got lucky.
An appointment opened up.
But fate can be cruel.
We got our answers that day.
And we got the diagnosis.
I nodded as the doctor spoke. I tried to stay composed.
But my hands were trembling.
And behind my calm expression,
tears were pooling in my eyes, refusing to fall.
That evening, when we got home,
I gave him a bath, just like any other day.
He leaned his small head on my shoulder,
like he had done something wrong... like he knew.
But he didn’t do anything wrong.
I did.
Or at least that’s how it felt.
We stayed like that for a long time.
No words. Just the sound of water running.
And two hearts quietly breaking.
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