I read it twice.
“Is that good?”
Two taps.
Yes.
I put the card in my purse.
“Then I’m glad.”
The speech itself became less important to me over time.
That surprised people.
They would ask, “Has he said anything yet?”
Usually with bright, hopeful faces.
I knew they meant well.
Still, I began resenting the question.
Anything.
As though his notes were nothing.
His laughter without sound was nothing.
His eye rolls were nothing.
His hand appearing beside mine on the kitchen counter was nothing.
His two taps were nothing.
His presence was nothing until his vocal cords participated.
“No,” I would say.
And when their faces fell, I sometimes added, “But he communicates constantly.”
People rarely knew what to do with that.
At thirteen, Alan fixed our dining table.
It had wobbled for years.
Daniel used to fold a piece of cardboard beneath one leg.
After the divorce, I left it like that.
One afternoon, I came home and found Alan lying on the floor with a screwdriver.
“What happened?”
He pointed to the table.
“It’s broken?”
One tap.
“No?”
He pointed again, annoyed this time.
I crouched.
The wobbling leg was gone.
Or rather, the wobble was gone.
He had tightened two joints and replaced a stripped screw with one from the garage.
I pushed the table.
Solid.
“You fixed it.”
He shrugged.
For some reason, my eyes filled.
Alan immediately looked alarmed.
“No. No, I’m okay.”
He stepped backward.
I laughed and wiped my face.
“This is ridiculous. I’m crying over furniture.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“I’ve been emotionally defeated by a table.”
His mouth twitched.
I touched the smooth wooden edge.
“Thank you.”
He stood there.
I wanted to say it then.
My son.
Thank you, my son.
The words rose all the way to the back of my throat.
And stopped.
Foster care teaches you terrible caution.
You learn not to say forever.
Not too early.
Not when a case could turn.
Not when a relative might appear.
Not when a court order could change.
Not when another adult could decide a child belongs somewhere else.
I had loved Alan for years by then.
But I rarely called him my son aloud.
Sometimes I thought it.
Sometimes it screamed inside me.
When he got an A in science.
When he had a fever.
When someone misunderstood him.
When he fell asleep on the couch during a movie.
My son.
My son.
My son.
But I was afraid to place the word between us.
What if it sounded like a promise I did not have legal authority to make?
What if it frightened him?
What if he had heard temporary mothers use permanent words before?
So I waited.
Then, one Tuesday afternoon, Karen called me.
Her voice sounded different.
Careful.
“Do you have a minute?”
My stomach dropped.
Those words never meant anything good in foster care.
