Once upon a time a perfect little baby boy was born to doting and loving parents. The doctors tested him with every known test and said that he was a perfectly normal and healthy baby boy. The parents were delighted, of course.
After living with the baby for some months, the mother was concerned that he never seemed to cry or scream like other babies. The doctor re-checked the baby and again proclaimed that all was well. She should be lucky that he never cried or screamed. She went from his office somewhat relived, but unconvinced.
More months passed, and the baby, though apparently healthy and cheerful in all ways, didn’t start talking baby talk like other babies of her friends. The other mothers reassured her, “He’s fine! Look at him! Babies all develop differently. It’s clear that he’s intelligent, and he can hear you when you talk to him and call him. He’s obviously healthy. Don’t worry!” And yet, she did.
Years passed. The boy did well playing with others, and none of his playmates minded that he didn’t say a word—it meant that they could dominate the conversation. As he started pre-school, then kindergarten and first grade, the teachers understood from the mother that he seemed to be mute, and since he got along well with others, had no health problems, and excelled in all of his schoolwork, everything was acceptable to all. Except his mother.
One day as a 16-year-old, still having never said a word, he sat down to eat a lunch prepared by his loving, but silently grieving and depressed, mother. She distractedly served him a bowl of soup that she had neglected to heat, and turned to other kitchen tasks.
“Soup’s cold,” the boy said to her abruptly. His mother, shocked and overjoyed beyond her imagining, dropped what she was doing and ran to him. She hugged him, then sat beside him and held his hands.
“You can speak! And your voice is so lovely to hear! All these years, you’ve never said a word!” she exclaimed.
The boy shrugged, the way 16-year-olds do, “Up until now, everything’s been sort of okay,” he said.