The Voice I Wanted

I have a son who I love with all my heart, but even though he is 5 years old, he is not able to speak. I can't stand it when people refer to him as "dumb." He's an intelligent boy, but he has a problem.

When he was just a baby, my son suffered a serious illness. The doctors told us to prepare for the worst, and for three terrifying days, my wife and I kept vigil at his hospital bedside, barely sleeping, barely eating. He recovered from the disease, but he never learned to speak. My wife and I took him to several psychologists and therapists, but none of them were able to help him. They said the cause of his problem was psychosomatic and he would eventually grow out of it. We waited, but he never did.

My wife and I spent every waking moment with our son, talking to him, reading to him, encouraging him to repeat words after us. All he was ever able to make was a high-pitched wailing sound, something between a shriek and a whimper that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside him. Sometimes he would get very frustrated and break down crying, his small fists clenched, his face red and streaked with tears. All we could do was hug him and assure him that we loved him.

One day, I was in a toy store looking for a birthday present, and a small robot on one of the shelves caught my eye. It was a talking robot, made of shiny silver plastic with painted blue eyes and a frozen smile. A string hung from its back like a tail. I decided to buy it for my son. I was hoping it might help him finally learn to speak.

When my son opened the box and saw the talking robot, he was overjoyed. He was so excited, he hugged me and made those high-pitched wails, but for the first time, they sounded almost like laughter. I pulled the string at the back and showed him how to get the robot talking. "I am your friend," the robot said in a cheerful voice. My son's eyes went wide.

My son fell in love with that toy and brought it everywhere he went — to the dinner table, to the bathtub, tucked under his arm at bedtime.

I would often hear him playing with it in his bedroom, pulling the string over and over, the robot's cheerful phrases echoing down the hallway. However, my son never spoke a word.

One morning, my son came down to breakfast and I put a plate of waffles in front of him.

"I don't like... this," he muttered.

For a few seconds, I couldn't believe my ears. The fork slipped from my hand and clattered against the plate.

"What did you say?" I asked in surprise.

"I said... I don't like... waffles," he repeated in a dull monotone.

I rushed over and hugged him tightly. Tears were streaming down my cheeks.

"You can talk!" I shouted, joyfully. "You can talk!"

"I can... talk," said my son.

"How?" I asked, my voice heavy with emotion. "How did this happen?" My son raised his small hand and pointed to his bedroom.

"It was... the robot," he said haltingly. "The robot... gave its power... to me."

After that, my son began talking every day. He says a few words every day, but it is always in the same dull monotone. No inflection. No warmth. No life. I should be happy, but I'm not.

There is something different about him. He doesn't show any emotion anymore. He doesn't laugh at cartoons or flinch at thunder. He never cries. He never smiles. He never hugs me. He just sits there at the table, staring at me with those unblinking eyes, his face perfectly still like painted plastic.

He also never plays with the talking robot anymore. It sits in the corner of his bedroom, gathering dust.

Yesterday, I picked it up and pulled the string.

It made a high-pitched wailing sound.

No matter how many times I pull the string, it still makes that high-pitched wail... the same high-pitched wail my son used to make. The same frustration. The same desperate cry for help.

Even though my son doesn't play with it anymore, I'm afraid to throw the talking robot away. Because sometimes, late at night, when the house is quiet, I swear I can hear it wailing from his room. And my son just sits beside it, smiling that painted, frozen smile, pulling the string again and again.

Then one night, I heard it clearly.

The robot spoke in my son's voice... like it was the very first time it had ever learned how to speak.

"D-dad... dy... hee... help me."

I froze.

My son looked at me, still smiling, and whispered softly,

"I am your friend."