“Mick, we’ve waited five years. Five. The doctors said we’d never have kids. And now… this.”

**Diary Entry 5th July, 1993**

“Mick, weve been waiting five years. Five. The doctors said wed never have children. And then Mick, look!” I froze by the garden gate, unable to believe my eyes.

My husband lumbered in, hunched under the weight of a bucket of fish. The July morning chill bit deep, but what I saw on the bench made me forget the cold.

“What is it?” Michael set the bucket down and joined me.

On the old bench by the fence sat a wicker basket. Inside, wrapped in a faded cloth, lay a baby.

His huge brown eyes locked onto mineno fear, no curiosity, just watching.

“Good Lord,” Michael breathed. “Where did he come from?”

I brushed a finger over his dark hair. The baby didnt stir, didnt cryjust blinked.

Clutched in his tiny fist was a scrap of paper. I pried it open carefully and read:

*”Please care for him. I cant. Im sorry.”*

“We should call the police,” Michael muttered, scratching his head. “And notify the council.”

But Id already scooped the baby up, cradling him close. He smelled of dusty roads and unwashed hair. His onesie was worn but clean.

“Annie,” Michaels voice was tense, “we cant just take him.”

“We can.” I met his gaze. “Mick, five years. The doctors said itd never happen. And here he is.”

“But the law, the paperwork His parents could turn up.”

I shook my head. “They wont. I feel it.”

The boy suddenly grinned at me, as if he understood. And that was enough. Through friends, we sorted the guardianship. 1993 wasnt an easy year.

A week in, we noticed something odd. The babyId named him Timothydidnt react to sound. At first, we thought he was just thoughtful, focused.

But when the neighbours tractor rumbled past and Timothy didnt flinch, my heart clenched.

“Mick, he cant hear,” I whispered that night, tucking him into the old crib wed got from my nephew.

Michael stared at the fire a long while, then sighed. “Well take him to Dr. Harris in Milford.”

The doctor examined Timothy and shook his head. “Congenital deafness, total. Surgery wont helpthis isnt that kind of case.”

I cried all the way home. Michael gripped the wheel so hard his knuckles whitened. That evening, after Timothy was asleep, he pulled out a bottle.

“Mick, maybe dont”

“No.” He poured half a glass and downed it. “Were keeping him.”

“Who?”

“Him. Were not giving him up,” he said firmly. “Well manage.”

“But how? How do we teach him? How”

Michael cut me off with a wave. “Youll figure it out. Youre a teacher. Youll invent something.”

That night, I didnt sleep. I lay staring at the ceiling, thinking: *How do you teach a child who cant hear? How do you give him everything he needs?*

By dawn, it hit me: he has eyes, hands, a heart. Thats all he needs.

The next day, I opened a notebook and began drafting lessons. Hunting for books, devising ways to teach without sound. From that moment, our lives changed forever.

Autumn came, and Timothy turned ten. He sat by the window, drawing sunflowers. In his sketchbook, they werent just flowersthey danced, swirling in their own silent rhythm.

“Mick, look,” I whispered, nudging my husband.

“Yellow again. Hes happy today.”

Over the years, Timothy and I learned to understand each other. First, I mastered finger-spelling, then sign language. Michael was slower, but hed long since learned the important words*son, love, proud.*

There were no schools for children like him, so I taught him myself. He picked up reading fastletters, syllables, words. Maths even quicker.

But mostly, he drew. On everything he could find. First with his finger on fogged glass, then on the chalkboard Michael built for him. Later, with paints on paper and canvas.

I ordered paints from the city, skimping on myself so hed have good materials.

“Your mute boy scribbling again?” sneered our neighbour, Tom, peering over the fence. “Whats the point of him?”

Michael looked up from the garden. “And whatre you doing thats so useful, Tom? Aside from flapping your mouth?”

The village never understood. They mocked Timothy, called him names. Especially the children.

Once, he came home with a torn shirt and a scratch on his cheek. Silently, he showed me whod done itColin, the village chiefs son.

I cried while cleaning the cut. Timothy wiped my tears with his fingers and smiled*dont worry, its fine.*

That evening, Michael left. He came back late, said nothing, but had a black eye. After that, no one touched Timothy again.

By his teens, his art had changed. A unique style emergedunearthly, as if from another world. He painted silence, but with such depth it stole your breath. Our walls were covered in his work.

Then, one day, a council inspector came to check our homeschooling. A stern-faced woman stepped inside, saw the paintings, and froze.

“Who did these?” she whispered.

“My son,” I said proudly.

“You must show experts. This boy he has real talent.”

But we were afraid. The world outside seemed too big, too dangerous for Timothy. How would he manage without us, without his familiar signs?

“Were going,” I insisted, packing his things. “Theres an art fair in the next town. You need to show your work.”

Timothy was seventeen nowtall, lean, with long fingers and a gaze that missed nothing. He nodded reluctantlyarguing with me was pointless.

At the fair, his paintings were hung in a corner. Five small canvasesfields, birds, hands cradling the sun. People glanced but didnt stop.

Then *she* appeareda grey-haired woman with a straight back and sharp eyes. She stood motionless before his work, then turned abruptly.

“Are these yours?”

“My sons.” I nodded to Timothy, arms crossed beside me.

“Hes deaf?” she asked, noticing our signing.

“From birth.”

She nodded. “Im Margaret Holloway. From the Holloway Gallery in London. This piece” She exhaled, studying the smallest paintinga sunset over a field. “It has what artists spend lifetimes searching for. I want to buy it.”

Timothy went still, watching my face as I clumsily signed her words. His fingers trembled; disbelief flickered in his eyes.

“Youre seriously considering selling?” Her tone was firm, professional.

“We never” I faltered, cheeks burning. “We never thought of selling. This is his soul on canvas.”

She opened her purse and counted out a sumhalf a years wages from Michaels carpentry shop.

A week later, she returned. Took another paintingthe one with hands holding the morning sun.

Mid-autumn, the postman brought a letter.

*”Your sons work carries a rare honesty. A depth understood without words. This is what true art lovers seek.”*

London greeted us with grey streets and cold stares. The gallery was a tiny space on the outskirts, but every day, people camestudying, discussing composition, colour. Timothy stood back, watching lips move, gestures fly.

Though he heard no words, their faces spoke clearly: something extraordinary was happening.

Then came grants, apprenticeships, magazine features. They called him *The Silent Painter.* His workwordless cries of the soulspoke to everyone who saw it.

Three years passed. Michael wept, seeing Timothy off to his first solo exhibition. I held myself together, but inside, I was roaring.

Our boy was grown. Without us. But he came back. One sunny afternoon, he appeared on our doorstep with wildflowers. Hugged us, took our hands, and led us through the village, past curious stares, to a distant field.

There stood a house. New, white, with a balcony and huge windows. The village had wondered for months who was building it.

“What is this?” I whispered.

Timothy smiled and handed us keys. Insidespacious rooms, a studio, bookshelves, new furniture.

“Son,” Michael stammered, “this is this yours?”

Timothy shook his head and signed: *”Ours. Yours and mine.”*

Then he led us into the garden, where a huge painting adorned the walla basket by a gate, a woman with a radiant face holding a baby, and above them, in signs: *”Thank you, Mum.”*

I stood frozen, tears unchecked. My stoic Michael suddenly stepped forward and crushed