Drastically.
The silent, haunted boy who once flinched at loud noises and avoided eye contact was slowly disappearing.
In his place was a child rediscovering himself.
He spoke more now.
Not just words —
But thoughts.
Opinions.
Questions.
He would call from the garden.
His voice excited.
Alive.
He would hold up drawings — messy sketches of airplanes, imaginary superheroes, or sometimes family portraits where he always placed me in the center.
At school, his teachers reported progress weekly.
He participated.
He raised his hand.
He laughed at jokes instead of shrinking into silence.
The nightmares that once jolted him awake had gradually reduced.
Therapy sessions helped.
Structured routines helped.
Playtime in the garden helped.
And most of all —
My constant reassurance helped.
Every night I would sit beside his bed and remind him:
“You are safe.”
“No one is coming for you.”
“You are loved.”
Those words had become a shield around his fragile childhood.
They were working.
Slowly.
But effectively.
