“Then I’ll lose. But at least I’ll lose fighting for my son, not giving up without a fight.”
A long pause.
“When do you need me?”
“Tomorrow. Right now. Whenever you can.”
“Tomorrow morning. Seven o’clock. Like always.”
“Thank you,” David breathed. “Thank you, Vera.”
“Don’t thank me. Thank Michael. He’s the one who brought you back to life.”
She hung up.
David sat in the dark office and felt something shift inside him. For the first time in three years, he wasn’t afraid of the future. He felt hope. Michael woke up to a hand on his shoulder. He opened his eyes and saw his father.
“Good morning,” David signed. “I have a surprise for you.”
The boy sat up, rubbing his eyes.
“What is it?”
“Come to the kitchen.”
They walked down the hall. Michael was still sleepy, not fully awake. The kitchen smelled of pancakes. The boy stopped in the doorway. Vera was standing at the stove. In the same simple dress. With the same apron.
With the same smile. She turned, saw Michael. And her face lit up.
“Hi, sweetie.”
Michael didn’t move. He stared at her, his eyes wide. Then he slowly signed:
“You came back?”
“I came back.”
“For good?”
Vera looked at David. He nodded.
“For good,” she answered.
Michael stood there for another second. Then he bolted from the spot and threw himself at her. He wrapped his arms around her. He buried his face in her stomach. His body shook with sobs. Vera knelt down.
She hugged him. She stroked his hair, rocked him, whispered something. He couldn’t hear the words, but he could feel them. David stood in the doorway, watching them. Watching his son, who was alive again. Watching the woman who had given him his son back. And he knew: whatever happened next, he had made the right choice.
Finally, Michael calmed down. He wiped his tears. He looked up at Vera with his tear-stained eyes.
“Are the pancakes ready?” he signed. And for the first time in a week, there was a smile in his voice.
“Almost. Want to help?”
The boy nodded.
They cooked together, just like the first time, just like always. Michael stirred the batter, Vera flipped the pancakes. David set the table.
For the first time in three years, they looked like a family. When they sat down to eat, Michael suddenly asked:
“Grandma’s coming, isn’t she?”
“Yes, she is,” David nodded.
“And she’s going to take me?”
“She’s going to try. But I won’t let her. I promise.”
David reached across the table. He took his son’s small hand in his.
“I promise. No matter what happens, I will fight. For you. For us.”
Michael squeezed his hand tightly.
“I’ll fight too. You?”
“Me. I’ll tell the judge I want to stay with you. And with Vera.”
Seven years old. A deaf child. With more courage than most adults. David felt tears welling up in his eyes.
He held them back. He smiled.
“Then we’ll win.”
Vera looked at them both and silently prayed that it was true. Eleanor Vance arrived on Friday at three p.m. sharp. Just as she’d promised. David met her in the living room. Alone. He had asked Vera to take Michael for a long walk.
“Where is Michael?” his mother-in-law asked immediately.
“He’s out for a walk.”
“With Helena?”
“With Vera.”
Eleanor’s face turned to stone.
“You brought her back?”
“Yes.”
“After everything I said?”
“Because of everything you said.”
She slowly sank onto the sofa. She looked at David as if seeing him for the first time.
“Do you realize what I’m going to do now?”
“I do.”
“You’ll file for custody? You’ll try to take Michael?”
“I won’t try. I will.”
David picked up the folder. The one with the expert opinions. He tossed it on the table in front of her.
“With this?”
“With reports from your friends who have never even met my son? Eleanor, I called every single one of them. I recorded the conversations. I have proof that this was a setup.”
His mother-in-law went pale.
“You… you recorded them?”
“Yes. And if you take me to court, I will present those recordings. Plus, I will prove that in three weeks with Vera, Michael made more progress than in three years with your ‘professionals.’”
“What progress? Rolling in the mud?”
“He became happy!” David raised his voice. “He started to live. Isn’t that progress?”
Eleanor stood up. Her voice was as cold as ice.
“You don’t understand, David. Happiness is not the goal when raising a special needs child. The goal is adaptation, preparing him for a society that won’t coddle him like your Vera does.”
“And I believe that happiness is the only goal. He’ll achieve everything else on his own, if he’s happy.”
“That’s naive.”
“That’s love.”
They stared at each other. Two different worlds. Two different approaches. Two truths that couldn’t coexist.
“Fine,” Eleanor said at last. “Then let the court decide. I’ll file the petition on Monday.”
“Go ahead. I’ll be ready.”
She walked to the door. At the threshold, she turned.
“Kate would never have forgiven you for this.”
David shook his head.
“Kate would be proud. Because I’m finally becoming the father she wanted me to be.”
Eleanor slammed the door. David was left alone in the living room. His hands were shaking. His heart was pounding. He had won the battle. But the war was just beginning.
The court date was set for mid-October. Three weeks to prepare. David hired the best lawyers. He gathered evidence. He recorded videos of Michael’s sessions with Vera. Showing the boy learning, playing, growing. He requested evaluations from independent, credible specialists who came, spent several days with Michael, talked to Vera, and studied her methods.
Their conclusion was unanimous: “The child demonstrates significant progress in emotional and social development. The nanny’s methods are consistent with modern approaches to educating children with hearing impairments. Continuing these sessions is highly recommended.” David breathed a sigh of relief. But Vera was tense.
“Is something wrong?” he asked one evening after Michael was asleep.
They were sitting in the kitchen, drinking tea. Rain fell outside the window. October in Chicago was cold and gray.
“I’m scared,” Vera said quietly.
“Of what? That we’ll lose?”
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