The last eighteen years have been ones with much struggle and hardship. Anne Cox, mother of two beautiful children, Harold and Gemma, she was a woman who deserved the 'mother of the year' award. She'd dealt with being a single mother and had gone through divorce, however now, she was happily settled with her husband Robin. She'd spent years of managing a rebellious teen daughter and she put everything she had into coping with her son Harry, who suffered from mutism.

He had always been different. People knew he wasn't the average boy. Even as a young child he was always set apart from others. As a baby he was quiet, he would fall or bump his head and let out nothing more than a small whine. For some time Anne passed it off as Harry being a good baby, quiet and independent, even at a such a young age.

However as time progressed and Harry got older he seemed so different from how Gemma had been at his age. Anne realized something was severely different with Harry, deep down she knew from the beginning. She was in denial of her sons silence. She never complained about his lack of words, she just accepted that that was who he was.

By the time he had reached the one year mark Anne decided to bring him to the doctor. He was one year and one month at the time. Anne could remember seeing her little boy in the doctors office, eyes darting around looking terrified.

It was after many tests and attempted tricks to get Harry to mutter just one sound that he was diagnosed as mute. The doctor explained to Anne that Harry would be able to understand things like any other person who could speak, and that he would in time have a voice, meaning he would be able to speak if he chose to. They described it as selective mutism.

They gave her hope with the words of, "It could be a phase." Saying he could eventually grow out of it. They gave her options for therapy, speech therapy, creative therapy, all types of things. And she gave them all a try, putting her son in art classes, music classes, speech therapy, regular therapy, but nothing seemed to work.

Sticking Harry in those supposed 'therapeutic' situations just made it worse. He'd return to his mother in a foul mood, he may not speak but his facial expressions were ones you couldn't miss.

Although over the course of eighteen years, Harry had come out of his shell, but not by much. He still remained in his bedroom most days and bottled up all of his emotions, put a cap on them and shoved them over to the side. He pushed away every pitied smile he was given by those who knew he was unable to speak. He still denied most if not all physical contact from others, even his mother and sister.

But there were good days, where Harry would make way down to his family and he would smile and let out a couple of laughs here and there, giving the rest of his family hope that one day his lips would form words and there would be more than a note to read or a hand gesture to understand. Anne loved her son, she held onto the moments where Harry was wearing a smile and laughing. She loved who he was, she would never want any other version of him.

Harry was a great son. He knew right from wrong, helped out around the house, kept his things organized and tidy, he was a sweet kid and had a massive heart. Anne just found herself hopeful that Harry would one day find love outside of his family. She wished for someone to see more than silence in him and love him the way she did.