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His silence and lack of eye contact spoke volumes. Instead, Hugo gave me a half-shrug and shifted along the bench.
“I’m Mya. I was hoping we could hang out.”
More silence. But I didn’t let it faze me. You had to have thick skin to work with these kids. Kids who had seen and experienced things no kid ever should.
“Is that Swoop?” I motioned to the tatty stuffed eagle in Hugo’s hands. He was clutching onto the thing so tight I was surprised it hadn’t ripped clean in two.
But he didn’t respond.
“I’m not a huge fan, but my boyfriend plays for a college team. He’s pretty good.”
Hugo glanced at me, his stare so dull and lifeless it twisted my insides.
What had this poor kid seen to make him choose not to communicate? To build walls so high he didn’t know how to break through them? To choose isolation and solace over comfort and security?
“His name is Asher, he plays defense.”
Hugo averted his gaze again, and the seed of hope that had flourished in my chest withered and died. But I’d keep pushing. Slowly and surely, I’d prove to this six-year-old with pain in his eyes that he could trust me.
Two weeks and three more sessions later, Hugo still refused to talk. He barely engaged in sessions, choosing to color or read a book in silence. His brothers had flourished, although Jay preferred the physical activities laid on by the center while Mario preferred the more creative ones.
“There you are.” Asher looped his arms around me and pulled me against his chest as I added milk to my cereal.
“Sorry. I couldn’t sleep.”
He made me drop the spoon and turned me in his arms. “The kid?” His brows furrowed.
“He’s just so... sad. It breaks my heart.”
“Babe, we talked about this. You can’t fix every kid who comes through the doors.”
“I know.” I bristled. “But you haven’t seen him, Ash. He just sits there, completely closed off. I’ve spent almost ten hours with him, and he hasn’t said a single word to me.”
It was no time in the grand scheme of things, but it was the first time I’d worked with a selective mute before. It was hard not to let my own frustrations bleed over.
“You promised you wouldn’t get too involved.”
“I’m not,” I snapped a little too harshly, and Asher arched a brow. “Sorry, I just—”
“You care, I get it. But some of these kids have experienced enough trauma to warrant a lifetime of therapy. You said he was getting professional support?”
I nodded. “Someone has been working with him at school. But so far, nothing.”
“Know what I think?” He leaned down, touching his head to mine.
“What?”
“The little guy will talk when he’s good and ready.”
“I wish it were that simple.” My shoulders sagged.
“Maybe he just needs a reason to talk.”
“What do you mean?” It was my turn to frown.
“Maybe he needs some motivation, and I’m not talking getting a sticker or lollipop at the end of a session with the school shrink.”
“Like a bribe?”
