What He Could Mimic

Chapter 2: Fun?

Mother and son walked hand in hand toward home. He answered questions about school while continuing his silent struggle to coax his facial muscles into motion without the aid of his hands; he had not yet succeeded. She, of course, noticed the effort. She watched him with a tender curiosity while listening intently to his stories about classroom drawings and the playmates he had joined that day.

Yet, the boy said nothing of his practiced smiles, nor of his teacher’s advice on how to keep them from looking brittle and false. There was no deceit in his silence, only the simple, guileless desire of a child to surprise his parents. He wanted to offer them a genuine smile—to see them catch a spark of joy from it.

The father, meanwhile, made the midday trek from office to home. They lived close enough to afford such a luxury, and it was their custom to take their noon meal as a family. Their timing was perfect; they met at the threshold.

To make the most of the hour, the mother went straight to the kitchen to serve, while the boy recounted his day to his father. He didn’t wait to be prompted; he began at once. His retelling was an exact carbon copy of the story he’d given his mother—word for word, as if reciting a carefully memorized script.

Once the plates were set, they began to eat. Having exhausted his report, the boy fell into a quiet rhythm of eating and listening. His parents traded stories of their respective mornings, noting the small curiosities of the day, while their son spoke only when spoken to.

It wasn’t that he was being stifled, nor was there some rigid family rule that children should be seen and not heard. He simply had nothing particular he wished to say.

When the meal ended, a sliver of time remained before the father had to return to work. They cleared the table and sat to play with their son, who was already spreading out his building blocks.

In truth, there wasn’t much for them to “do.” They simply enjoyed the quiet orbit of his presence, watching him play and offering warmth whenever he showed off a construction or asked for their thoughts on what to build next.

In that peaceful lull, the parents’ minds drifted back to the matter of the “I don’t know.” It had been haunting them since their conversation with the visiting relatives. Watching him play so serenely, they couldn’t help but recall it, and one of them decided to test the waters.

They reasoned that if he gave the same answer now, it would surely be out of mere childhood contrariness—after all, these blocks were his favorite toy.

As expected, the boy replied with a flat, “I don’t know.” In a way, it was a relief; it confirmed the behavior as typical toddler stubbornness. Otherwise, why would he play with something he didn’t like?

To test the theory further, the other parent asked for a hug. The boy gave it freely, his expression never wavering. This gave them pause. Why would he claim not to know if he liked a toy, yet offer an embrace without hesitation?

With that doubt anchored in their minds, they finished their family time until it was time for the father to leave. Before he departed, they agreed to continue these small inquiries the following day. They were determined to find the true motive behind that strange response—one that was beginning to feel like something more than just a child being difficult.

And they were right. It wasn’t rebellion. It was a disconnect—an absence of emotion entirely. But they had no way of knowing that something was fractured in their son’s emotional development. It would be a long time before they truly understood.

A few hours passed, and the boy remained occupied with various tasks. He was a quiet child, yet he played with the same outward energy as any other. At that moment, he was in the garden, happily getting stained with earth.

His mother eventually approached to brush the dirt from his clothes. She told him they were going to the nearby park, so he must first wash his face and hands. With a calm deliberation, the boy dragged his two-step stool to the sink and followed her instructions.

Once cleaned, they headed to the square, where several children were playing under the watchful eyes of their parents. He looked at his mother as if seeking a silent imprimatur to join them; she nodded, sensing his intent.

As he walked away, she drifted toward the other parents. They were familiar faces—not quite friends, but frequent acquaintances bound by the shared routine of supervision. In that quiet interval of light “parent-talk,” she found herself remembering the first time they had come to this park.

It had been a few months ago, shortly after moving into their new home. They had been resting and decided to step out for fresh air to get the lay of the land. They had ended up here and thought it a fine opportunity for their son to socialize.

He hadn’t started preschool yet, nor did he ever express a particular yearning to play outside. His experience with other children was nearly nonexistent. Predictably, he hadn’t approached the group, choosing instead to watch them from a distance.

They hadn’t wanted to push him. Instead, they struck up a conversation with the other parents, hoping to establish a neighborly rapport. Fortunately, they were pleasant people, and the conversation flowed easily as they traded the anxieties and milestones of first-time parenthood. But they never lost sight of their son, and the moment his demeanor shifted, their focus snapped back to him.

The boy had spent the entire time studying the others. Some children, piqued by curiosity, stared back for a moment before returning to their games. Others ignored him entirely. A few looked as though they wanted to approach but lacked the nerve.

The stalemate broke when a particularly gregarious child noticed him and walked over to introduce himself. To their surprise, the boy responded effortlessly, as if he had no trouble communicating with his peers. Seeing this, the other children flocked to him, realizing he wasn’t so different after all.

His parents had exhaled a breath they didn’t know they were holding. He had integrated; he was playing just like any other child. They had feared that his empty expressions would act as a barrier to connection.

Since then, they brought him regularly, though even now, his mother didn’t know if he truly preferred the park or the solitude of home. His thoughts were a locked room. If she asked and he said he preferred to be alone, she would feel the weight of guilt for forcing him to socialize.

Perhaps it was a selfish worry. Perhaps she was overthinking it. Maybe he truly did enjoy the company of others, and her anxieties were misplaced. But she knew one thing for certain: everything would be so much simpler if she could only read the map of her son’s face.

Oblivious to his mother’s inner turmoil, the boy played tag with the others. When they first met him, some children had been unnerved by his unchanging mask, even in the heat of play. But they soon grew accustomed to it, seeing that his actions mirrored their own. He had been folded into the group by the extroverts who saw a mystery to be solved rather than a stranger to be feared.

And yet, it remained doubtful whether the boy truly found joy in their company or if he craved the silence of his own room. It was uncertain if anything truly sparked “happiness” within him.

His actions did not seem to spring from that primal, childish engine of seeking what one loves and avoiding what one hates. In his mind, there were no such intuitive flashes of preference.

It wasn’t just that his face was still; something in his psyche was not forming correctly. He did not act to satisfy a desire. He moved by mimicking the patterns he observed in others.

He didn’t play because it was fun; he played because that is what children do, or because it was the expected response when a toy was offered. The only thing that was truly his own was a deep, quiet curiosity for the expressions he lacked—a sense, buried somewhere in the dark, that there was something he was supposed to find…

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