What He Could Imitate - Chapter 3: A Smile?

Time drifted by. An hour had passed since they arrived, and the parents decided it was time to head to their respective homes, gathering their children to leave.

Some children were tired and content, bidding their farewells without a word of protest. Others, the more restless ones, felt they hadn’t played nearly enough; they threw tantrums before finally, grudgingly, giving in.

Though he had witnessed this scene many times before, this time it captured the boy’s full attention. The contrasting expressions flickering across their faces were diverse, each one a vivid testament to their individuality. Even those with calm, demure reactions bore subtle details on their faces—traces of something he did not possess, or at least, something that had not yet made an appearance.

His mother approached and took his hand as they both said goodbye to the group. Once the others were out of sight, she mentioned they would stop by the supermarket for groceries.

They walked in silence until, without thinking, she asked if he’d had fun at the park. It was a slip of the tongue; she was supposed to save those kinds of questions for tomorrow. Now, however, she had no choice but to wait for his reply.

Her son stared at her and then kept walking; for a moment, it almost looked as if he were frowning. His thoughts were a mystery to her, but she imagined he might be reflecting deeply on the question. If that were true, it would be a significant personal triumph just to have noticed that subtle shift in his expression. For now, she decided not to pressure him for an immediate answer and tried not to watch him too closely.

He meditated seriously on whether it had been “fun” or not, while she did her best to look straight ahead and maintain her composure.

As they neared their destination, he tugged at her hand. She turned to him, certain he had finally settled on an answer and was waiting for her to hear it.

“I don’t know.”

She couldn’t help but exhale the breath she’d been holding. She felt a bit naive for expecting something more profound. Yet, it wasn’t entirely in vain; noticing that the tension in his brow had smoothed out, she confirmed there had been a change in his expression. It was a minuscule, almost imperceptible shift, but it was definitely there—and it made her feel closer to him.

Feeling renewed, she entered the store with her son. She knew exactly what she needed, so the trip was quick. Soon, they were at the checkout.

The cashier asked why the boy looked so angry. There was no malice in it; he simply assumed the child was upset because of his serious face, perhaps hoping to lighten the mood.

The boy stood static at the question. He knew what anger was, but he had never felt it, so he wondered how the man had reached that conclusion. Fortunately, the question wasn’t for him, but for his mother. With complete calm, she corrected the misconception, explaining that he was always like this and that it was his normal expression. She accepted it as a common assumption and didn’t make a scene after the man offered a sincere apology.

Back at home, the boy remained somewhat bewildered by how others perceived him. If his mother had looked at him in that moment at the register, she surely would have noticed his slightly raised eyebrows.

Once he had composed himself, she approached him with a snack and asked if something was wrong. That day, her ability to read him had improved significantly, and she could tell he was deep in thought.

“Do I look angry?”

She didn’t need to read his face to understand why he was asking; the reason for his brooding was clear. Now it was her turn to reflect: how could she be honest without hurting him? She wanted to prevent him from feeling dejected if she simply said “yes,” but she didn’t know how to explain that his resting face was easily misinterpreted as anger.

She decided to use her own face as an example. She put on a smile and asked, “Do I look happy or angry?”

Naturally, the answer was: “Happy.”

Then she furrowed her brow: “Do I look happy or angry now?”

Of course, the answer was: “Angry.”

Finally, she did her best to erase all expression from her face. “How do I look now?”

The boy studied his mother’s face intently. He thought seriously about his answer but couldn’t reach a conclusion. She certainly didn’t look happy, but he wasn’t sure she looked angry either.

“I don’t know.”

It was all he could say; there was no word in his vocabulary for an emotion represented by a total lack of gestures. He didn’t realize that, for her, it would have been easier to continue the explanation if he had said she looked angry.

Regardless, she explained that some people would have said she looked mad, simply because that was how they perceived a blank face. She then gently told him that because he usually looks that way, the cashier thought he was angry.

Hoping it was enough, she watched him closely, searching for clues on his no-longer-so-immutable face. This time, she witnessed it: a slight twitch of his eyebrows, a sign of his surprise.

He was processing this new information—something he didn’t fully grasp, but he was at least convinced that it wasn’t strange for people to think he was angry, even when he wasn’t.

That was enough to satisfy his curiosity. He headed to his small table with the snack he’d been holding all along and sat down to eat. Seeing that her son had moved on, his mother felt the tension leave her body and finished putting away the groceries.

Around 6:15 PM, a key turned in the lock. The boy left what he was doing to greet his father, who had returned from work, while his mother finished preparing dinner. It was a bit early for them, but they preferred to stick to their son’s schedule.

Together they set the table. The boy sat in his special chair with his parents’ help, and they began to eat. Conversation flowed as the parents asked each other about their day.

More accurately, the parents led the talk while the third member of the family ate in silence, listening closely and only speaking when addressed directly. It was a common sight, and they didn’t view it negatively. They knew their son rarely initiated topics and usually wouldn’t speak unless prompted. Because of this, they had made it a habit to consciously weave him into the family dialogue.

When dinner was over, they helped him down and cleared the table. Suddenly, the boy remembered he had something to show them. He hurried to his room to rummage through his backpack.

The parents watched with curiosity as he disappeared, wondering what the rush was. Their questions were answered when he returned with a sheet of paper.

He approached them with a drawing and handed it over. He didn’t explain what it was; he was only showing them because the teacher had told him to take it home and show his parents.

They studied it closely, realizing it must be the “class activity” he had mentioned earlier. But what were they supposed to say?

They weren’t sure, as he hadn’t asked for an opinion or explained the subject. They only knew the theme was “last weekend.” For a moment, they tried to decipher the drawing’s meaning on their own. They wanted to understand it without being told—a sort of parental pride in being able to read their son’s art. As for the boy, instead of expecting a specific reaction, he simply waited, observing their expressions.

It had become a habit of his: watching people’s gestures had become his primary focus in social settings. Even if he wasn’t prone to interacting actively, he had found a reason to watch.

The drawing was, at best, abstract. Fortunately, they had heard him mention “expressions” before, and remembering the family visit from the day before, they deduced that the circles with lines inside must be the faces of the children he had played with.

Since they couldn’t guess his intentions, they opted to confirm their theory with him. Seeing him nod, they wondered what else to say.

Suddenly, he reached out, wanting the drawing back. Confused, they handed it over, and the boy went back to his room to put it away.

Their bewilderment grew. They stood there, wondering why he had shown them the drawing only to leave without waiting for feedback. They didn’t know that their son had simply followed the teacher’s instructions to the letter. He had been told to show the drawing to his parents—not to give it to them, and certainly not that they had to say anything about it.

In his room, as was his custom, he was checking his backpack for the next day. It wasn’t unusual for him to forget something, and strictly speaking, he didn’t need to do this—his mother helped him check every morning anyway. But it had become a habit after watching her pack his bag on his very first day of school.

Afterward, he went to the bathroom, adjusted his two-step stool, and brushed his teeth. He rinsed his mouth, and as he lifted his head after spitting out the water, he looked at his face in the mirror.

A forgotten idea resurfaced. At school, he had used his hands to force a smile, but his teacher said it looked wrong because it looked fake. He had tried a few more times to smile “for real,” but he couldn’t tell if he was doing it right because he couldn’t see himself.

But now it was different. It was like a revelation—the best idea he’d ever had. From now on, he would practice his expressions in the bathroom mirror. He would surprise his parents with a brilliant smile



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