Chapter 2 - EVERYTHING SHE COULD NOT SAY OUT LOUD
People often assumed Mireyah lived inside a quiet world.
They spoke about her while she stood beside them.
They asked me whether she understood simple questions.
Some adults raised their voices as though volume could replace language. Others praised her for doing things they would never celebrate in another seven-year-old, then looked surprised when she rolled her eyes.
Mireyah understood humor.
She understood embarrassment.
She knew when someone was pretending not to see her.
She also knew the difference between a child who was uncertain and one who had already decided she did not belong.
At home, she communicated constantly.
Two taps on her chest meant me.
A pointed finger followed by an open palm meant you give.
When she was happy, she squeezed both hands beneath her chin and rocked once on her heels.
For more complicated thoughts, she used an AAC tablet with symbols that produced spoken words when she pressed them.
The first sentence she built on it was:
Mom stay.
The second was:
More pancakes.
The third came months later after watching children play tag outside school.
I want friend.
She pressed that sentence so often that the device’s synthetic voice became part of the rhythm of our house.
I want friend.
I want friend.
I want friend.
Her teacher, Ms. Lawson, helped her practice introductions. They created a small laminated card with three symbols:
Hi. Play. Friend.
Mireyah carried it inside her coat pocket for weeks.
She practiced showing it to the mirror.
She practiced with me.
She practiced with her stuffed rabbit.
But every time we reached a real playground, another child moved too fast, spoke too quickly or mistook her silence for disinterest.
May you like
That day, the card was still in her pocket.
She never had the chance to show it.
