“I’m sad because my legs don’t work so good. I can’t run fast like Liam. My legs just don’t work.”
The weight of those words hung in the air like a dense fog, every heartbeat amplifying the silence that followed. I felt the air escape my lungs as I tried to process what I had just heard. Someone needed to reassure him, to tell him he was perfect just as he is, that we understood challenges lay ahead, yet we would face them together.
But who would speak up? It was just me in the car with him and his sister. I was supposed to be the one to comfort him, but what could I possibly say? That everything would be alright? That it was unfair? That I was sorry?
I thought we had more time. I believed we would be spared from this moment for a while longer. At only four years old, this boy—my precious little boy—had only just figured out he was a boy. He could remember my name, “Jamie,” but sometimes mixed up “Dad’s” name. He called the place where he poops his “tushie,” and thought the same went for where he pees. I thought we had more time before he became aware of his Cerebral Palsy, before he realized the harshness of fate, genetics, or my own negligence during pregnancy.
We had convinced ourselves that at least he was blissfully unaware of his differences. We clung to the belief that he didn’t recognize that other kids didn’t struggle just to get through each day or require eight hours of therapy weekly. But now he knew. It became evident during our morning drive when Liam commented that his brother, Owen, didn’t look so great. I glanced back, expecting to see him pale, but he looked fine. I guessed it was just his disappointment from not being allowed to wear his favorite watch to school. I suggested to Liam that she ask Owen what was bothering him.
“Owen, what’s wrong?” she sweetly asked.
“I sad,” he replied.
“Why are you sad?”
“I sad because my legs no work so good. I no run fast like Liam. My legs no work,” he said.
I think I let out a gasp. It slipped out quietly, but it was there.
And then, in a moment of unexpected grace, Liam stepped in to save the day. This five-year-old girl, who had already faced her own challenges with arthritis and sensory issues, offered her brother the most uplifting pep talk I’d ever heard.
“No, Owen, you’re going to be really fast one day! You can wear my sneakers, they’re pink but they light up and make people really fast. Ask Dad to help you with your running skills – he’s really good at that. You might even beat me someday!”
Her willingness to share her pride in her speed, despite her own struggles, was an incredible act of kindness.
I thought she had more time too—time before she would need to give pep talks, to stand up for him, to explain his challenges. She’s only five, not yet in kindergarten, and yet she just knew he needed that.
As I dropped Owen off at school, I mentioned to his therapist that he was feeling a bit down today. He kissed me goodbye, his bright blue-green eyes lacking their usual sparkle. Something within him had clicked, and he was feeling the weight of it all.
It’s that moment when you realize something that you can’t un-know. When you see that look in your child’s eyes that you can never erase or hear that deep sadness in his voice that lingers. It’s unbearable. My heart aches for him and for the reality he has begun to understand.
Afterward, I took Liam to her school and paused at a red light to express how proud I was of her—how her generosity and love for her brother shone in that moment. Then I called my partner, detailing the morning’s events, and finally allowed the tears to flow. I found myself questioning how we would explain all of this to Owen, what words could possibly suffice.
I’ve cried on and off since that conversation, knowing that similar discussions will follow. And I still have no clue what I should say. Some things can’t be fixed with a hug or a kiss. There are apologies I want to whisper to him, expressions of my frustration that he has to face this reality, and the overwhelming wish that it had been me struggling instead. Yet, I am fiercely proud of him, grateful every day that he is mine, and that for four long years, he has made me proud without even realizing it.
But now he knows.
I thought we had more time.
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