Later, during a lesson, a tutor sat across from him, writing words he couldn’t hear and barely connect with. When Noah tried to sign, to express himself, the tutor only tapped the board again, impatient.
Evelyn stood in the doorway, her lips forming sharp words Noah couldn’t hear—but somehow still felt.
The lesson dragged on like something broken.
That evening, a loud crash shook the house.
Ava ran and found Noah on the floor near the curtains, one heavy panel torn loose, his stuffed whale thrown aside. Evelyn stood above him, her face tight with anger.
“Look what you’ve done,” she said coldly.
Noah curled inward, shrinking.
Ava stepped forward immediately, placing herself between them.
“It’s not his fault!” she said, her voice trembling but firm. “He just wanted to see the rain. He needs someone to talk to him—someone who understands him.”
The room fell still.
Rosa stepped beside her daughter. “He needs communication, not punishment,” she said quietly.
Evelyn smiled—but there was no warmth in it.
“He needs discipline.”
At that moment, William entered.
He took in the torn curtain, the frightened child, the unfamiliar girl using her hands to speak—and confusion flickered across his face.