Chapter 2:WITHER (HEALING)
The night after Wither spoke, the house didn’t sleep.
No one turned off the lights. His mom sat in the kitchen with a cold cup of tea. His dad sat on the floor of Wither’s room, looking at the crooked 'A' on the torn paper.
No one said "we will do it for you" again.
*Day 1: The Spoon*
6:13 AM.
Wither woke up before the sun. His hands were still shaking from yesterday.
He walked to the kitchen. The house was quiet.
On the table: a plate, a spoon, a bowl of rice.
No one was there to feed him.
He picked up the spoon.
It fell. _Clang._
He picked it up again. His fingers felt stupid. Like they forgot how to hold things.
First bite. Rice fell on the table.
Second bite. A grain stuck to his cheek.
Third bite. He got half of it in his mouth.
He was 6 years old and learning how to eat like a baby.
His mom watched from the corner of the kitchen. Her hands were in her pockets so she wouldn’t reach out. Her eyes were red.
Wither saw her. He didn’t ask for help.
He finished half the bowl. Messy. Slow. But he did it himself.
When he was done, he looked at her.
She whispered, “I’m proud of you.”
He nodded. And walked away.
*Day 3: The Pencil*
His dad left a notebook and a pencil on his desk. No instructions. No help.
Wither sat for 20 minutes just staring at the blank page.
The last time he wrote, his dad did it for him. Perfect letters.
He pressed the pencil down.
'A'. Crooked. Too big.
He tore the page.
'B'. The line went outside.
Tore it again.
'C'. Shaky.
His fingers hurt. His wrist hurt.
He wanted to throw the pencil. He wanted to yell "do it for me."
He didn’t.
He wrote the whole alphabet. Ugly. Wrong. But his.
At the bottom, in the smallest letters, he wrote: *me*.
That night, his dad found the notebook. He didn’t correct anything. He just put it back.
*Day 7: The Shoes*
School.
Wither sat on the floor of his room. Laces in his hand.
The first knot went wrong.
The second knot came undone.
The third try, it held. Loose, but it held.
He stood up. Walked to the mirror.
His shirt was tucked in wrong. One sock was higher than the other.
He didn’t fix it.
At school, kids stared. “Why are your shoes like that?”
Wither shrugged. “I tied them.”
It was the first time in months he answered without looking at his mom first.
*Day 10: The Voice*
Dinner. Relatives were over again.
His uncle asked, “So Wither, what did you do today?”
The old silence tried to come back. The urge to look at his mom.
Wither felt it in his throat.
He took a breath.
“I... I tied my shoes. And I wrote my name. And I ate by myself.”
His voice was quiet. It cracked in the middle.
But it was his.
The table went quiet for 2 seconds. Then his uncle said, “That’s good, buddy.”
His mom didn’t jump in. She just held her water glass tighter.
*Day 14: The Fall*
Garden.
Wither decided to ride his bike. He hadn’t ridden in a year. Dad always held the back seat.
He got on. Wobbled.
Fell.
His knee scraped. Blood. It stung.
The old voice in his head said: _Wait. Someone will come. Someone will fix it._
No one came.
His parents were watching from the window. His mom had her hand over her mouth. His dad’s hands were in fists.
Wither sat there for 10 seconds. Then he got up. Limping.
He wiped the blood with his sleeve. Got back on the bike.
Fell again.
Got up again.
On the third try, he rode 5 meters before falling.
He laughed. It was a small, rusty sound. Like he forgot how.
*Day 21: The Questions*
Wither was back to asking "why".
“Why do birds fly south?”
“Why is the sky bigger at night?”
“Why did you used to answer for me?”
That last one was at dinner.
His parents froze.
His dad put down his fork. “Because we were scared. We thought if we did everything, nothing bad would happen to you. We were wrong.”
Wither nodded. “Okay.”
He didn’t yell. He didn’t cry.
He just wanted the truth.
*Day 30: The Paper*
One month later.
Wither came to his parents in the living room. He was still limping a little from a bike fall two days ago.
In his hands: a sheet of paper.
At the top, in shaky, uneven, determined letters:
*"Me."*
Under it, smaller:
*_I fell. I got up.
I was quiet. I spoke.
You loved me. I’m learning to live.__
His mom started crying. Not loud. Just tears.
His dad knelt down to Wither’s level. He didn’t hug him. Not yet. He was scared of doing too much again.
He just said, “That’s the most beautiful word I’ve ever seen.”
Wither looked at his paper. Then at his parents.
“I’m not good at it yet,” he said. “Being me.”
“That’s okay,” his mom said. “No one is. We’re learning too.”
*Two Months Later*
Wither still needed help sometimes.
He still spilled water.
His handwriting was still bad.
He still got quiet when too many people were around.
But now, when he didn’t know something, he tried first.
When he fell, he got up first.
When he had a thought, he said it first.
His room changed.
Puzzles were half-done, but he was doing them.
Drawings were on the wall. All crooked suns and stick figures. All his.
The notebook was full now. Page after page of 'A' 'B' 'C' and then words. Simple words. _Tree. Bike. Hurt. Brave._
One evening, his dad was washing dishes. Wither walked in.
“Can I try?”
Dad handed him a plate.
It slipped. It broke.
They both looked at the pieces.
Dad opened his mouth. Closed it.
Wither grabbed the broom himself. “I’ll clean it.”
That night, his dad wrote in his own diary for the first time in years:
_Today my son broke a plate and cleaned it. Today I didn’t fix it for him. Today I think we’re both healing.*
*The Last Scene*
6 months after "that day".
Wither was 7 now.
He stood in front of his class for show-and-tell.
Other kids brought toys. Pictures.
Wither brought his notebook.
He opened it. Page 1: a crooked 'A'.
Page 20: his name, messy.
Page 40: a drawing of 3 people holding hands. The hands were different sizes.
“My name is Wither,” he said. His voice didn’t shake. “This is my notebook. I did it all by myself. It’s ugly. But it’s mine.”
The class clapped.
His teacher smiled.
And in the back of the room, his mom and dad sat in parent chairs.
They didn’t speak for him.
They just watched.
And for the first time in a long time, they weren’t afraid.
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*End of Chapter 2*
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*Moral: Healing is not becoming perfect. Healing is becoming yours again.*
One spoon. One letter. One step. One word. One "Me" at a time.
