He just waited while I unfolded it.
And as I read, the world around me seemed to fade.
The note explained that his younger sister had been sick for a long time.
The details weren’t dramatic or sensational. They were simple, honest, and heartbreaking in their quietness.
Hospitals.
Treatments.
Long nights filled with worry.
He wrote that the only place his sister ever truly felt calm was during therapy sessions where water sounds echoed softly in the background. Something about the gentle rhythm made her feel safe. It helped her breathe. It helped her sleep.
For her, the sound of water meant comfort.
But lately, her condition had made her more sensitive, especially at night. The same sounds that once soothed her were now overwhelming when she was trying to rest.
And every evening, when our pool routine began, the faint, repetitive movement of water carried through the fence into their house.
To us, it was peaceful.
To her, on those fragile nights, it was too much.
The boy wrote that his father didn’t know how to ask in a way that wouldn’t sound rude.
And he wrote that he, the son, didn’t know what else to do.
He just wanted his little sister to sleep.
He just wanted one small thing to be easier for her.
I lowered the paper slowly and looked at him.
His face was tense with worry. He watched me like he was searching for something.
Understanding.
Kindness.
Maybe even mercy.
Behind me, the pool was perfectly still.
No splashing.
No laughter.
Just silence.
And in that silence, our nightly ritual suddenly felt small.
Not unimportant.
But small compared to what was happening just beyond our fence.
