Some moments feel so meaningful, you wish they could last longer.
This was one of them.
We were in the waiting room for a routine check-up. Liam, my son, hasn’t spoken since he was three and still shuts down in unfamiliar places. His therapy dog, Nova, always seems to understand him better than anyone else. She knows when to lean in, when to calm him, without ever being told.
But today felt different.
Liam pulled Nova close and rested his head on hers, arms trembling slightly. Then he moved his lips against her fur—silent, but purposeful. Nova froze, glanced at me, then went to his wheelchair pouch and pawed at it. Inside was a red toy car Liam hadn’t touched or asked for in months. He used to carry it everywhere before he stopped speaking.
When I handed it to him, he held it tightly, eyes locked on it. Then—he tapped it twice on his knee.
He used to do that when he was excited—back before the silence.
And then Nova walked to the reception desk, placed her paw on the counter, and barked.
It was like they both knew: something had changed.