The Spark, the Flame, and the Silence

I remember the first scream. A sharp wail of neither pain nor distress but an intense, high-pitched scream of startled awareness.

I remember the suspense of not knowing—the uncertainty of whether everything was alright or terribly wrong. In those seconds, I forgot the pain in my lower abdomen, the stiffness of my back, the tingling in my thighs. I tried to sit up, eager for a glimpse of what I had made.

I remember the moment I saw his eyes—bright slits of curious light—the unshaped promise flickering in his gaze.

I knew I could never control or unmake this living mystery—I could only guide it and wait to see whether it would illuminate my world… or consume it.

I watched him reach for my finger, and I wondered if the life I had created would bring me joy or sorrow; pride or shame; hope or despair.

I remember pressing the warm bottle to his lips and feeling the gentle suction as he latched on to feed, then settled into my arms; I remember running lukewarm water over his soft skin and breathing in the lavender mist that curled around us.

His coos bubbled up like air through water—soft, joyful and content. But soon enough, they gave way to cries that crashed through me like jagged waves, as he looked for a comfort I didn’t know how to give.

I remember the first time he turned his head to me, tracking my face with intent—my triumph shadowed by the sheer exhaustion of nurturing a life so utterly dependent on me, offering nothing in return but fleeting moments of peace.

I remember teaching him to stand: his tiny legs trembling as he found balance, and the hush of the room as I held my breath, praying he’d trust himself.

I remember holding him close, whispering promises I wasn’t sure I could keep. For I knew I could only guide this spark of life—but never control the wild flame it might become.

I remember the first time he grabbed his playmate’s toy—a plastic truck he’d seized with proud fingers—shoving the gentler boy aside. A cold knot of dread settled in me: awareness had arrived, fully armed and unapologetically self-centered. Yet I softened my voice and tried again to teach him gently: “We do not take what is not ours.”

As he grew older, I watched him rip petals from the neighbors’ marigolds, letting them crumble like burnt paper between his fingers. I saw him pluck a bee’s wings—his eyes wide, fascinated by his own power to take simply because he could. Helplessly, I wondered, how could I teach empathy? How could I make him understand the meaning of pain?

I remember kneeling beside him after he shoved yet another boy, my voice soft as a lullaby: “How would you feel if someone did that to you?” But the next day, I found him striking the same boy with the force of a battering ram, as if my words had never reached him.

I remember the first time I caught him in a lie—his eyes wide, fearful yet defiant, insisting he hadn’t broken the vase, even as ceramic shards lay scattered at his feet. I knelt to meet his gaze, pleading softly, “Trust is sacred. If you don’t speak the truth, how can I believe you?” He stared back, unmoved, and I felt a chill: would any of my lessons ever truly take root in his soul?

I remember watching the years fold over him—each birthday candle a quiet prayer that the lessons would take root, that time would teach him gentleness, honesty and restraint.

Yet as adolescence ripened, the seed I once nurtured grew into a stranger whose cruelty cut deeper than any child’s mischief.

He betrayed a friend’s confidence, whispering secrets in the lunchroom and watching the world close in on her in shame. He bore false witness against a boy who had rivaled him for top honors, savoring the spectacle as his contender fell into disgrace. I pleaded with him, my pulse trembling: “Trust is sacred. To speak falsely shatters the bonds we share.” But he laughed, tossing my words aside like cracked stones, satisfied that he'd gotten away with it.

I remember the first time he stole from a neighbor’s garage—slipping into the dim light to pocket tools he had no use for. I discovered the open tool chest at dawn, my heart pounding with shame that he still had not learned that lesson: you do not take what isn’t yours, simply because you can.

He never apologized—not once. Even when caught, he shifted blame or shrugged, as if admitting fault were beneath him. I began to wonder if remorse was something he would ever feel, or if accountability was simply another lesson he had chosen to ignore.

I remember grounding him for a week, banning his phone and friends. Yet on the sixth night, I found his room empty—him gone despite my ruling—and I realized no lock or lecture could forge the conscience he refused to build. How could I reach him—this boy who no longer listened? How could I make him understand fairness, or feel the weight of justice, not just as rules, but as something sacred?

I remember the first time I saw him on the hunt as a man. He didn’t doff his hat or bow his head in the old way. Instead, he stood grinning over the fallen stag, rifle gleaming—an executioner posing as if he’d won a contest.

The unfairness of it was smeared across the ground: the corn he’d laid out to lure the stag now splattered red with its blood. He draped its antlers across the hood of his truck like a crown, the animal’s life bleeding into the earth I had begged him to protect.

A trophy not of courage, but of laziness and cunning—he had lured the innocent to their death while he snacked, nestled in the comfort of his blind.

I watched him grow into a man of power, selling “jobs and progress” as he clear-cut ancient forests and turned rivers black with sludge. I heard his laugh echo through glass boardrooms whenever a rival crumbled—his charisma a razor that sliced through anyone too weak to stand their ground.

I remember him dismissing a senior executive—one of the few women at his table—after she dared question his profit projections. The smear campaign that followed was ruthless, designed to publicly decimate her character and leave her dignity in shreds.

Cameras followed him, the media enchanted by his polished charm and lofty speeches about integrity—performances that masked his appetite for power and secured everything he wanted, at anyone’s expense.

I remember the day they indicted him for fraud. The empire he’d pitched as “shared prosperity” collapsed into spun air and borrowed money. He stood in court with that same predatory smile—still insisting innocence—while the people he’d ruined cried for justice and his worshipers sneered at them as nothing more than poor losers.

I remember the silence in my house when the verdict came in. Guilty on all counts—yet he walked free on appeal, his followers calling it a political witch-hunt. I remember staring at the empty room where he once sat at my table—wondering how a spark I’d breathed to life could burn so cold.

By then, I no longer spoke. There was nothing left to teach—only silence to keep.

I regret breathing life into him, and trusting that love alone would hold his will.

I regret sparing him the discipline, the boundaries, the consequences that might have shaped him differently—and spared the innocent from the weight of his greed.

Perhaps my greatest failure was believing that kindness could tame pride, jealousy, and cruelty—or that a gentle hand could smother flames that demand resistance.

And now I stand in the silence, mourning the wildfire that began as a spark in my hands, and pray that someday, somehow, even this cold blaze might flicker out—so I can finally protect the world I brought him into.