𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑮𝑰𝑹𝑳 | ᵍʳᵉʸˢ ᵃⁿᵃᵗᵒᵐʸ

𝑎𝑝ℎ𝑎𝑠𝑖𝑎... | ¹⁹⁹³

𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐀𝐍, 𝟏𝟗𝟗𝟑

On that peaceful early summer evening, as the low sun bathed the dining room in a soft golden light, everything seemed as perfect as a scene from a movie.

Until the moment I realized I was suddenly having trouble finding the right words.

I was only five years old at the time, but that feeling... that heaviness that paralyzed my thoughts and my tongue, is deeply etched in my memory.

"The... that... there!" I stuttered, desperately trying to finish the sentence. But my lips did not move in sync with my thoughts.

Instead, only incomprehensible sounds came out, like a broken toy. So I just pointed my finger at the red vegetable I suddenly couldn't name.

"Missy, why aren't you talking?", my mother asked as she placed the slice of tomato I had
so clumsily asked for on my plate.

The words. I knew they were there.

But every time I tried to speak them, they seemed to elude me. They didn't obey; they
fled, stumbled, turned into a jumbled mess.

My Uncle Mark, always the comedian, tried to lighten the mood with one of his typical jokes.

"Maybe she's just thinking about which of her countless admirers in kindergarten she wants
to sit next to in the chair circle tomorrow."

I tried to laugh, to tell him he was being silly.
But all I felt was this oppressive numbness
that went from my tongue to my fingertips.

I sat there, surrounded by the people I loved, and yet it felt like we were worlds apart. My heart was pounding, panic welled up inside of me.

It scared me.

"Sweetie, are you tired?" my grandma asked lovingly, her forehead slightly furrowed in concern. As if she could sense that my world was about to fall apart.

"Oh, she's only five. Probably just a little overwhelmed by all the attention," Uncle Mark chimed in, cutting a piece off his steak.

He always had a way of taking things in stride, and there was little that could disturb his peace or stress him out.

My mother, Addison, nodded in agreement.
"Maybe we should put her to bed soon," she sighed thoughtfully, gently stroking my hair.

I remember the cool feel of the glass in my hand and the sweet smell of grape juice that lingered in the air. The evening sun shimmered in the deep purple drink, and I felt so grown up sitting with the grown-ups.

But just as I raised the glass to my lips, an unseen force seemed to interfere. The liquid seemed to spill out of my mouth and drip onto my dress, my legs, and the floor below.

It was Aunt Nancy who first reacted to my clumsiness. "Typical Missy," she said in a tone all too familiar when you grow up in a family of strong women. "Jeremy would never have played with food or drink at your age. He was always such a proper kid."

Mom, who had always tried to make a good impression on Derek's sisters, careful that everything looked perfect and no one had a reason to talk about us, snatched the glass from my hand and scolded.

"Missy! How many times have I told you to be careful when you drink? Look at that mess!
That was a new skirt!"

I felt my cheeks heat up. I was sorry.
So terribly sorry. If only I could have told her
that I didn't do it on purpose.

"Addison, it's okay."

Dad, the gentle peacemaker, put his hand on
her arm. "It's just a skirt. And she's just a kid."
Then he looked at me lovingly and reassuringly and asked: "Are you still thirsty, Princess?"

I looked at my mother, who gave me a warning look, and then nodded hesitantly. He took the glass that Addison had taken from me and handed it back to me, his other hand under my chin, ready to catch any drops that might spill.

And as the red liquid slowly drained from the corner of my mouth, I heard my mothers disappointment in a frustrated sigh.

It was not an accusation, but rather the feeling of a mother who thinks she may have failed in some way.

Dad, with incredible speed of reaction, caught the juice with his hand and took the glass away.

Then, he and Aunty Amelia exchanged looks
that reflected a silent fear. A fear that makes me shudder even now, many years later. 

It was more than a little accident with a glass of juice. It was a sign that something in my little world was no longer as it should be.