Page 71 of Before You Can Blink
Tripp stomped noisily across the room and into his mama’s arms.
My wife let out a contented sigh when he burrowed into her chest, and she began to move with the melody. Over Tripp’s head, she peeked at where I mirrored her actions with our daughter.
“When they’re grown, we’re gonna wish for these days back.”
Humming, I clutched Aspen tighter to me. “I have a feeling you’re right about that.”
Although our life with two little ones was often chaotic, there was something to be said for the peaceful moments, like this one, when my family shared an unhurried dance party in the kitchen.
Coming home to them made every hard day worth it.
Chapter 12
Jett
Age 30
October
Myearswereringingso badly I feared I might suffer permanent hearing damage soon. Wincing as another shrill cry pierced straight through my skull, I gritted my teeth against the fresh wave of pain.
The headache, otherwise known as my son, was throwing an all-out fit. Red-faced and screaming at the top of his lungs, he stomped his feet repeatedly, fists clenched tight.
“I’m calling Caroline,” Daisy declared, exasperated.
“No.” I shook my aching head. “He’s never going to speak for himself if we keep bringing Penny in to interpret.”
“So, you’d have him suffer?” she cried.
“There’s nothing physically wrong with him, Daze.”
When the kid wouldn’t even utter the simplest words, such as mama or dada, Doc Stevens had run every test under the sun to determine ifthere might be a reason our three-year-old refused to talk. Not one of them turned up any legitimate cause as to why he remained mute.
Though I had my suspicions.
Between his older sister and Wade and Caroline’s daughter, there was no need for him to vocalize his wants and needs because they were quick to do it for him. While the girls meant well, they didn’t realize they were doing more harm than good.
In my mind, the only way to nip this in the bud after it had already gone too far was to cut Tripp off cold turkey. If Aspen and Penny stopped speaking for him, he’d be forced to do it for himself. At least, that was the hope.
I crouched before my wailing son. When I gripped his arms, he began to fight against me, and his hollering increased in volume.
“Tripp, bud, you’re a big boy. And big boys use their words.”
Daisy snorted behind me. “Good luck trying to reason with a toddler having a temper tantrum. Let me know how that works out for you.”
I shot her a glare over my shoulder. “Do you have any better ideas?”
Rolling her eyes, she turned on her heel and walked away, muttering something about bull-headed men under her breath.
Blowing out a heavy breath, I returned my attention to Tripp. Drool leaked from his open mouth, mixing with the snot that ran freely from his nose. His collared shirt—a reminder that we were headed to church this Sunday morning—was soaked through, the now-translucent fabric clinging to his sweaty form.
At my wits’ end, I begged, “Tripp, please. Tell me what’s wrong, and I’ll do what I can to try and fix it.”
He wrenched out of my hold, plopping onto his butt before promptly regaining his feet to resume his stomping.
“Tripp!” a young voice I knew all too well called out from behind me.
Penny ran past me to wrap her arms around my inconsolable son, whose sobs tapered off to hiccups in an instant.
