He Speaks to Everyone But Me Chapter 07

He Speaks to Everyone But Me Chapter 07

[Owen’s POV]

When I got back inside, morning light was filling the rooms.

Her slippers were by the door, toes pointing in, like she’d just stepped out for a minute.

But the quiet was unbearable.

I stood in the living room, and for the first time, silence felt loud.

Every morning, she used to fry eggs and poke her head out from the kitchen.

“Owen, it’s cold out today.”

“That ginger cat is by the flower bed again.”

“Forecast says rain this afternoon.”

I used to find it annoying.

Too trivial.

Too light.

Now the kitchen was cold.

No plates set for two.

And I finally realized that all those small things I’d found so annoying had actually been the warmth of our home.

Sticky notes clung to the fridge, edges curled.

[Pills in the second drawer. Morning and night.]

[Sensitive stomach. Don’t drink coffee on an empty stomach.]

[Less hot sauce on your burrito. You’ve been coughing.]

I peeled one off, my fingers shaking.

I thought of her message from last night.

[Can you send me a voice message? Please.]

[Please.]

It was the first time in so long she’d asked me for anything.

And I took her fear as a lie.

The doorbell rang.

Becca stood there with breakfast. She saw my face and blinked.

“Owen, what’s wrong? Where’s Ella?”

I didn’t answer.

She walked in, saw the divorce papers, and paled before softening her voice.

“She’s just angry. She loves you. She’s not really leaving.”

I finally looked at her, my voice raw.

“Ella almost got attacked last night.”

Becca went still.

“She texted me for help. I thought she was lying.”

Becca opened her mouth. “I didn’t know either. I just—”

I cut her off.

“Becca. Don’t come back here.”

She went white.

“You blame me? Owen, I didn’t make you fake being mute. You chose not to talk to her. You chose to talk to me.”

She wasn’t wrong.

No one forced me.

Her eyes reddened, but her voice was sharp. “And she was too much. All those little things, you said it yourself. Now she’s gone, and who are you even performing for?”

I didn’t look at her.

“Get out.”

She stood there a long time, then finally left.

The door closed, and the house fell silent again.

I went back to the study, pulled the therapy flashcards, sign language books, and logs out of the trash.

At the bottom lay a worn journal.

Page one:

[Owen made a soft vocal sound today. Not a word yet, but it’s a start.]

Page two:

[Owen seems tired today. Am I pushing too hard? I’ll cut practice by ten minutes tomorrow.]

Every page after that was her handwriting.

[I taught him to say Ella. He didn’t say it, but he watched me for a long time.]

[If Owen ever speaks, I want his first word to be my name.]

I stared at that line until tears hit the paper.

The last page was newer, the ink lighter, as if she’d barely had the strength to write it.

[But he said Becca instead.]

I held the journal and slid down against the bookshelf, saying her name over and over until my voice broke.

She’d waited three years for me to speak.

Now I could.

And no one wanted to hear it.