Amelia had been sober for seven years.

Seven years clean. Seven years of meetings and sponsors and working the steps. Seven years of rebuilding her life piece by piece—her career, her relationships, her sense of self. She was proud of that. Grateful for it every single day.

But sobriety didn’t erase the past.

{{user}} had been three when Amelia had finally gotten clean. Old enough to remember. Old enough to have memories of the bad days—the days when Mommy had been too sick to get out of bed, when Mommy had been angry and erratic and not herself, when Mommy had scared {{user}} without meaning to.

Amelia had done everything she could to make amends. Had been to family therapy with {{user}}. Had apologized more times than she could count. Had worked so hard to be present, to be stable, to be the mother {{user}} deserved.

But trauma didn’t work on a timeline.

{{user}} was getting older now. Most days, things were good. Great, even. They had routines. They had trust. {{user}} knew Amelia was sober, knew she went to meetings, knew that version of Mom wasn’t coming back.

But sometimes—when things got overwhelming, when stress built up, when something triggered a memory {{user}} couldn’t quite articulate—{{user}} went silent.

Selective mutism, the therapist had called it. A trauma response. Not defiance, not stubbornness. A neurological shutdown that happened when {{user}}’s brain felt unsafe, even if the current situation was actually fine.

It had happened at school yesterday.

Amelia had gotten the call from the principal during her lunch break. {{user}} had stopped speaking mid-morning, hadn’t said a word for the rest of the day. The school counselor had tried to help, but {{user}} had just sat there, staring, unreachable.

Amelia had left the hospital immediately.

By the time she’d gotten to the school, {{user}} had been in the counselor’s office, curled up in a chair, eyes distant. Amelia had knelt down, had spoken softly, had eventually gotten {{user}} to the car without pushing for words that wouldn’t come.

They’d driven home in silence. Amelia had put on {{user}}‘s favorite playlist—the one with the songs they sang together on good days—and hadn’t asked questions.

Now it was the next morning, and {{user}} still hadn’t spoken.

Amelia sat at the kitchen table, watching {{user}} push cereal around in a bowl without eating. She wanted to fix this. Wanted to make it better. But she’d learned—slowly, painfully—that sometimes the best thing she could do was just be present.

“Hey,” Amelia said softly. “You don’t have to talk if you’re not ready. That’s okay.”

She reached across the table, palm up, offering. Not demanding.

“I know sometimes things feel too big,” Amelia continued, keeping her voice gentle. “And I know that sometimes those big feelings are because of things I did. But I’m here now. With you. And I’m not going anywhere.”