During dinner, I carefully fed Yael. While he still didn’t speak, he obediently opened his mouth for each bite. I patiently fed him, spoon by spoon, my heart aching with a mix of sorrow and tenderness.
Across the table, Silas sat watching coldly.
He suddenly spoke, “Look at you, treating him like a three-year-old. He’s already five. Can’t he feed himself?”
Ignoring his ridicule, I focused on taking care of Yael.
Yael seemed to sense his father’s disapproval and trembled slightly. I gently patted his back and comforted him softly, “It’s okay, Yael. Take your time, Mommy is here with you.”
Just then, the doorbell rang.
