Davýd’s eyes look tired but grateful. He mouths a thank-you at me before slipping out and leaving us alone.
This time, I bring out a simple set of finger puppets I had delivered. They’re common animals made out of felt. They aren’t too stimulating or bright. I put one on my finger and make it wave hello. She watches it closely, with her chin tucked against her shoulder.
I start singing “This Old Man” again, using the finger puppet to do a little dance. She looks at the puppet, then at my mouth. She inches closer by a fraction. Another good sign.
We color again. She doesn’t make a peep, but she stays close enough that our knees almost touch. At one point, she presses a red crayon into my hand like she wants me to use it too. I do.
By the third day, she walks straight to the rug and sits down without waiting for me to invite her. That alone might make me cry if I’m not careful.
“Do you want to try a song together?” I ask after we get settled with our crayons and papers.
She keeps coloring. I take that as a maybe.
I start singing again, slow and deliberate. I over-enunciate certain sounds so she can see the shape of my mouth. When I finish, I start again, same pacing, same tone, same emphasis. I become a metronome. Repetition teaches safety.
Halfway through the fourth verse, I deliberately sing the wrong word. Anya freezes. Her head lifts and she narrows her eyes a bit. She looks straight at me, eyes questioning, confused, alert. I smile innocently.
“Oh,” I say, tapping my temple. “Did I mess that up?”
She stares for another second, then nods. My heart flutters in my chest. This is huge. This is the most communication I’ve gotten from her. I clap once, quietly so I don’t scare her.
“Good job,” I whisper. “You noticed.”
Her eyes grow wide, like no one has praised her in a long time. Maybe no one has.
I try again with another wrong word in the song. She points. Just a little. A tiny gesture. But it’s directed at me.
“You heard it,” I say softly. “That was very smart.”
She presses her lips together like she’s holding something inside, like she wants to say something. I’m not a professional speech therapist by any means, but I start to hope she might actually speak to me.
On the sixth day, everything changes. We’re on the rug, coloring again. I’m singing the rhyme from earlier, letting the melody fill the space in a way that feels safe and predictable. She’s closer than usual today, leaning against me. She’s humming along with me very quietly, just the tune.
I pretend I don’t hear it because reacting too soon might shut her down. I wait three verses, then I stop halfway through a line. Anya freezes. She looks at me, the same way she did when I messed up a few days ago. Her brows knit in frustration, like she wants the pattern to continue.
She lifts her chin and hums the missing note. It’s a single, shaky sound. My throat tightens, and I have to carefully arrange my face so I don’t betray the emotion I’m feeling. I don’t want to overwhelm her.
“That’s right,” I whisper. “Perfect.”
She stares at me as if waiting for my reaction, and when she sees how gentle it is, how soft my smile is, she relaxes. She hums again. This time a little louder. I feel my eyes sting, and I have to blink fast to keep the tears at bay.
“You’re doing so well,” I breathe.
She hums every time I pause after that. By the time the session ends, she’s basically in my lap. She feels safe with me.
Over the next week, we build on everything she’s learned. I bring out books with repetitive phrases and songs that repeat lines three times. I establish a routine with her that’s the same every single day to help build her confidence and trust.
She eventually begins humming by herself. She hands me crayons now instead of waiting for me to choose. She smiles at least twice every day. She’s much more physically open, often leaning on me or pushing herself into my lap. She doesn’t hug me or even give me high-fives, but I give her the space to lead with whatever makes her most comfortable.
Then, on a Wednesday afternoon about three weeks after I start watching her, we’re singing “The Itsy Bitsy Spider” together. Well, I’m singing and she’s humming, watching my hands as I do little motions to the song. And, as usual, I purposely drop a word.
“Up came the,” I sing, waiting for her to hum the note.
She hesitates, her little mouth moving soundlessly. And then, quietly, she whispers, “Sun.”
My heart stops. My hands fly to my mouth. Tears immediately spring to my eyes. I try so hard not to startle her with how emotional I feel.
“That was amazing,” I say softly. “Anya, that was incredible.”
