“Don’t hurt her, papa.”
The boy who hasn’t spoken since the night I found him, who has maintained all communication through signs and head shakes, who was too traumatized to do anything else, speaks… He speaks not for himself but for me. To protect me. A fact that puts me in a purely awed state. My jaw drops, mouth gaping at the intensity of the moment.
To add to my already shocked state, Basili’s next action absolutely astounds me. He drops the gun to his side, hastily restoring it to its holster before falling to his knees and engulfing Emmanuel in his strong arms.
“Figlio mio,”Basili nearly cries as Emmanuel's arms wind around his neck, welcoming the embrace of his father. The brave facade crumbles before my eyes. A small sob leaves the child as he is wrapped up in the safety of his father’s arms, one large hand cradling the child’s head against his broad shoulder.
“You’re safe now; I’m here,” he coos to the child, who has once again fallen silent.
This is not a child being reunited with his tormentor; this is love. He isn’t afraid of him,I realize, accepting that my earlier assumption that this was the monster he was so terrified of was completely wrong.
I watch in equal silence as the terrifyingly dangerous man before me continues to speak in reassuring tones to the child I had come to care for. I catch enough familiar words to comprehendthat the language he speaks is Italian. He presses a kiss to the boy’s cheek and then his forehead affectionately.
After what felt like minutes but was really mere seconds, I clear my throat, still frozen in place. The horror of my actions hits me, and I am utterly ashamed to admit that I had kept them apart. The result of my actions, of not reporting the child’s sudden appearance, instead of protecting him like I thought I had been, had been keeping him from a terrified father who was desperate to find him.
“I’m sorry —” I start, swallowing hard, my throat dry and tight from the unshed tears welling in my own eyes. “I didn’t know. I didn’t understand. He showed up in the middle of the night. Terrified. Saying a monster was after him. I thought —”
Basili looks up at me suddenly, those dark blue eyes finding mine; this time, there is no anger or threat there now. Just relief. Perhaps even some gratitude.
“Thank you,” he says, his voice rough with emotion. “Thank you for taking care of him.”
The words are simple and yet meaningful; I can read in his eyes what he isn’t saying out loud:Thank you for being there when I was not.
“I thought I was protecting him,” I say, my voice soft and low.
“You were,” Basili agrees, standing slowly, eyes locked on me. “Just not from me. You were doing what you thought was right.” His tone changes, dismissive now. “We should go.”
“Wait —”
“We’re leaving.” The words are clipped, final, intended to be non-negotiable.
He goes to move, taking Emmanuel by the hand to lead him toward the door. But the boy stays rooted in place, looking back at me with a silent plea in his eyes. Pulling his hand from his father’s, he signs one word, just my name: “Chloe?”
The look in his eyes tells me it is a question, not a statement. A combined expression of fear, the need for reassurance, for permission. It breaks something in my heart. I move forward without second-guessing my actions, reaching out to touch his arm.
“It’s okay, sweetie.” The tender endearment I’d had for him the past few days gets him to visibly relax slightly. “You’re going home. You’ll be safe with your father.”
I try to sound reassuring, even though I’m not completely sure I believe the words myself. He doesn’t respond. Just stares at me with those huge, dark eyes, silently pleading for me to stay with him like he always does.
“Emmanuel —” Basili starts again, but the boy starts emphatically shaking his head before reaching for me. His arms wrap around my waist as he buries his face in my hip.
I expect him to yell, to be angered by the child’s resistance, as his face darkens with an unreadable expression. I brace myself for the explosion I’m sure is coming.
Instead, he kneels down beside his son and then looks up at me, his brow furrowed. He says something in Italian to the child, soft, questioning. Again, Emmanuel doesn’t respond. Then in English, he says, “Emmanuel? Talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong.”
But he doesn’t. He just stares at his father as he continues to cling to me.
Basili looks up at me then, concern cast across his face. “What’s wrong? Why isn’t he speaking?”
“Nothing’s wrong with him.” I bristle, recognizing the condemnation in his tone beneath the worry. “He’s just — Well, he’s been through a lot. He hasn’t spoken since he arrived, not really.”
“What do you mean he hasn’t spoken?”
“I mean that in psychological terms, he has become selectively mute as a trauma response to whatever it is that happened to him.” My tone is firm, unwavering, as I stare down at the manwho held a gun to my head not more than ten minutes before. “There is nothingwrongwith him. He is a child, and he is scared. He communicates in scattered signs and head nods as he needs to; I understand him just fine. You’re his father, so don’t cast the idea that something iswrongwith him on him if you love him. He just needs time to sort through it all, time to heal, time to understand.”
Basili falls silent, reaching out to the boy once more, stroking his thumb across the child’s cheek softly. When next he speaks, his voice is quiet, contemplative, “How long has he been like this?”
“Since he arrived.”
