**Diary Entry**
I still remember that morning so clearlythe chill in the air despite it being July. Michael had just come back from fishing, his hands rough from the cold, when I froze by the gate. There, on the old bench by the fence, was a woven basket. Inside, wrapped in a faded blanket, lay a baby.
His huge brown eyes met mineno fear, no curiosity, just watching.
“Michael,” I whispered, unable to look away.
He set down the bucket and came to my side. “Where did he come from?” he murmured, his breath catching.
I traced a finger over the babys dark hair. He blinked but didnt cry. Clutched in his tiny fist was a scrap of paper: *”Please take care of him. I cant. Im sorry.”*
Michael frowned. “We have to call the authoritiesthe police, social services.”
But I was already lifting him into my arms. He smelled of dust and unwashed hair, his little jumpsuit worn but clean.
“Annie,” Michael said, uneasy, “we cant just”
“We can,” I interrupted, holding his gaze. “Five years, Michael. Five years weve waited. The doctors said wed never have children. And now”
“But the law his parents might come back,” he argued.
I shook my head. *They wont.* I could feel it.
Then the baby smiledwide and sudden, as if he understood. And that was enough.
A week later, we noticed something strange. Little Williamthats what Id named himdidnt react to sounds. At first, we thought he was just thoughtful, lost in his own world. But when the neighbours tractor roared past and he didnt flinch, my heart sank.
“Michael, he cant hear,” I whispered that night, tucking him into the old cradle my nephew had outgrown.
Michael stared into the fireplace, then sighed. “Well take him to Dr. Harrison in Millfield.”
The doctor examined William and shook his head. “Complete congenital deafness. Surgery wont helpthis isnt that kind of case.”
I cried all the way home. Michael gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. That evening, after William was asleep, he pulled out a bottle.
“Michael, maybe”
“No.” He poured a measure and drank it in one go. “Were keeping him.”
“But how? How do we teach him? How do we”
He cut me off with a wave. “Youll figure it out. Youre a teacher. You always do.”
That night, I didnt sleep. I lay staring at the ceiling, thinking, *How do you teach a child who cant hear?*
By dawn, I had my answer: he had eyes, hands, a heart. That was enough.
I started sketching lessonsfinger spelling, sign language. Our lives changed forever.
By autumn, William was ten. He sat by the window, drawing sunflowers. In his sketchbook, they werent just flowersthey danced, swirling in their own silent waltz.
“Michael, look,” I whispered, nudging him.
“Yellow again. Hes happy today.”
Over the years, we learned to understand each other. I mastered the finger alphabet, then sign language. Michael picked it up slower, but he knew the important words*son, love, proud*by heart.
There was no school for children like William, so I taught him myself. He learned to read quicklyletters, syllables, words. Maths came even faster.
But mostly, he drew. On anything he could findfirst on fogged-up windows, then on the chalkboard Michael built for him, later with paints on paper and canvas.
I ordered paints from the city, saving every penny so hed have good materials.
“That deaf boy still scribbling?” Old Tom from next door scoffed over the fence. “Whats the point of him?”
Michael straightened from the garden. “And whats the point of you, Tom? Besides flapping your gums?”
The village never understood. The children mocked him, called him names.
One day, he came home with a torn shirt and a scratch on his cheek. Silently, he showed me whod done itColin, the village heads son.
I cried as I cleaned the cut. William wiped my tears and smiled, as if to say, *Dont worry, Mum.*
That evening, Michael left. He came back late, saying nothing, but his knuckles were bruised. After that, no one touched William again.
By his teens, his art had changeddeveloped its own style, otherworldly. He painted a silent world, but the depth in his work took your breath away. Our walls were covered in his paintings.
Then the inspectors cameofficials from the county checking our home lessons. A stern woman stepped inside, saw the paintings, and froze.
“Who did these?” she whispered.
“My son,” I said.
She took off her glasses. “You need to show this to professionals. That boy he has a real gift.”
But we were afraid. The world outside the village seemed too big, too dangerous for William. How would he manage without us, without the signs he knew?
“Lets go,” I insisted, packing his things. “Theres an art fair in town. You need to show your work.”
William was seventeentall, thin, with long fingers and a gaze that noticed everything. He nodded reluctantly. Arguing with me was pointless.
At the fair, his paintings were tucked in a corner. Five small canvasesfields, birds, hands holding the sun. People glanced but didnt stop.
Then *she* appearedan older woman with sharp eyes. She studied his work, then turned to me.
“Are these yours?”
“My sons,” I said, nodding to William.
“Hes deaf?” she asked, noticing our signs.
“Since birth.”
She nodded. “Im Eleanor Whitmore. From a gallery in London. This one” She pointed to the smallest painting, a sunset over a field. “has something most artists spend years trying to find. I want to buy it.”
William watched my face as I signed her words. His fingers trembled; distrust flickered in his eyes.
“Youre seriously considering selling?” Her voice was firm.
“We never” I stumbled, cheeks flushing. “We never thought about it. Its his soul on canvas.”
She opened her purse and counted out notesmore than Michael made in half a year at his carpentry shop.
A week later, she returned. Took another paintingthe one with hands holding the morning sun.
That autumn, the postman brought an envelope.
*”Your sons work has a rare honestyan understanding of depth without words. This is what true art lovers seek.”*
London greeted us with grey streets and cold stares. The gallery was small, tucked in an old building on the outskirts. But every day, people camestudying his work, discussing colours, composition.
William stood back, watching lips move, gestures unfold. Though he couldnt hear, their faces spoke clearly: something special was happening.
Then came grants, apprenticeships, magazine features. They called him *”The Painter of Silence.”* His worksilent cries of the soultouched everyone who saw it.
Three years passed. Michael wept when William left for his first solo exhibition. I held myself together, but inside, I was trembling.
Our boy was grown. On his own.
But he came back. One sunny day, he appeared on our doorstep with wildflowers. He hugged us, then led us through the village, past curious stares, to a distant field.
There stood a housenew, white, with a balcony and huge windows. The village had wondered who was building it.
“What is this?” I whispered.
William smiled and handed me the keys. Inside were spacious rooms, a studio, bookshelves, new furniture.
“Son,” Michael stammered, “is this yours?”
William shook his head and signed: *Ours. Yours and mine.*
Then he led us outside. On the wall was a huge paintinga basket by the gate, a woman holding a baby, and above them, in sign language: *”Thank you, Mum.”*
I stood frozen, tears streaming.
Michael, always so reserved, suddenly pulled William into a crushing hug.
William hugged him back, then reached for me. And we stood there, the three of us, in the middle of that field, by our new home.
Now, Williams paintings hang in the finest galleries. He opened a school for deaf children and funds support programs. The village is proud*our William, who hears with his heart.*
Michael and I live in that white house. Every morning, I step onto the porch with my tea and look at the painting on the wall.
Sometimes I wonderwhat if we hadnt stepped outside that July morning? What if I hadnt seen him? What if Id been afraid?
William lives in the city now, but he comes home every weekend. He hugs me, and every doubt vanishes.
He
