“Because your dad loves you. And he wants what’s best for you. Even if he doesn’t understand what that is right now.”
She kissed the top of Michael’s head, stood up, and walked out. The door clicked shut.
Michael stood in the middle of the hallway. Then he slowly turned to his father. There was no anger in his eyes. Only a question. A silent, terrible question: “Why?” David couldn’t answer. The next day, a new nanny arrived. Helena Peterson. Fifty-eight years old.
A degree from Northwestern. Twenty years of experience with special needs children. References from three prominent families. Publications in professional journals. A perfect résumé. Cold eyes. She came with her own curriculum, scheduled down to the minute for the next month.
Eight a.m. — speech therapy. Nine a.m. — math. Ten a.m. — fine motor skills. Eleven a.m. — American Sign Language. Lunch at twelve-thirty sharp. A thirty-minute walk. A mandatory nap. No pancakes. No games. No mud. Michael sat at the table and stared at Helena with empty eyes.
She was explaining articulation exercises. The boy obediently opened his mouth, stuck out his tongue, and repeated the silent movements. Like a robot. Like a wind-up toy. David watched on the camera from his office. He looked at his son and felt a tight knot forming in his gut.
“This is the right way,” he told himself. “This is professional. This is safe.” This is death. He turned off the monitor and tried to focus on his work. He couldn’t. All he could see was Michael’s face the moment Vera left. His phone vibrated. A text from Eleanor: “I see you’ve hired a proper specialist. Good decision. I’ll be there Friday to check on his progress.”
David didn’t reply. That evening, he came home at nine. Helena was waiting with a report.
“Michael did well today. He completed 70% of his tasks. He struggled with the remaining 30%, but that’s normal for the initial phase. I’ve drafted a corrective plan for the week.”
“How was his mood?” David asked.
Helena looked at him, puzzled.
“What do you mean?”
“Emotionally. Was he happy? Did he laugh?”
She shrugged.
“Children with his condition are often emotionally reserved. It’s normal. The important thing is that the educational process is moving forward.”
David nodded. She left.
He went to Michael’s room. The boy was already in bed, tucked under the covers. His eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. David sat on the edge of the bed.
“Hey,” he signed.
Michael didn’t respond. He didn’t even turn his head.
“How was your day?”
Silence.
“Do you like your new teacher?”
Michael slowly turned to his father. He looked him straight in the eye. And he signed:
“Where’s Vera?”
David felt a lump rise in his throat.
“She doesn’t work for us anymore, Michael.”
“Why?”
“Because…” He didn’t know how to explain. “Because Helena is better. She’s a professional.”
“And Vera?”
“Vera is a good person. But she can’t be your nanny.”
Michael stared at his father for a long time. Then he slowly signed:
“I understand.”
He turned to face the wall. He closed his eyes. The conversation was over. David sat there for another minute, looking at his son’s back. Then he got up and left. In the hallway, he took out his phone. He opened the gallery. There was a single video he had accidentally taken three weeks ago while testing his new phone.
In the video, Michael and Vera were in the kitchen. Making pancakes. Laughing. David turned on the sound. He heard Vera’s laugh. He saw his son’s smile. He turned off the video. “Delete?” His finger hovered over the button. He couldn’t do it. A week passed. Helena worked like a Swiss watch.
Precise, systematic, flawless. Michael completed all his tasks, got stickers for his achievements, progressed through the curriculum, and died a little more each day. He stopped smiling. He stopped asking questions. He stopped coming to his father in the evenings. He was back in the same cage Vera had pulled him out of.
David saw it. Every day. Every minute. And he didn’t know what to do. On Thursday evening, he came home earlier than usual. Helena had already left. Michael was in his room, coloring a picture at his desk. Part of a developmental exercise. David walked over and looked.
The picture was colored neatly, evenly, correctly. The sky was blue, the grass was green, the sun was yellow. Lifeless. He remembered the muddy bird Michael had made in the puddle. Crooked, imperfect, and full of life.
“Michael…” He touched his son’s shoulder.
The boy looked up.
“Want to go for a walk?”
Michael looked at the clock on the wall. He signed:
“It’s not time for a walk. Helena said walks are only at three o’clock.”
“I’m your dad. I can change the time.”
“But the schedule…”
“Forget the schedule. Let’s go.”
They went down to the courtyard. It was getting dark. Almost no one was around. David led his son not to the playground, but to the far corner of the yard where the old maple trees grew. The same ones Vera had shown Michael in the first few days.
“Remember this tree?” David signed.
Michael nodded. Something flickered in his eyes. A memory. Pain.
“Vera said the leaves would turn red in the fall.”
“Yes.”
They looked up. The leaves had already started to change color. Gold, crimson, orange. Beautiful.
“She was right,” David said.
Michael didn’t answer. They stood in silence, looking at the tree.
Then Michael suddenly signed:
“Why did you send her away?”
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