Member-only story
The Boy Who Was Never Hugged
A story about silence, fire, and one unexpected embrace
The weight of her chin on my shoulder,
Her arms circling my waist tightly,
Her sobs warming up my ears.
I had no idea this would ever happen to me.
But it was the day Lynn Sarabeth hugged me for the first time.
I don’t remember being hugged in so long —
maybe twelve years ago?
I remember screaming when my parents hugged me,
so loud they took me to the doctor.
“There must be something wrong with him,”
Mom would say to the old man in glasses and a white coat.
So after I turned three or four, the hugs stopped.
And I became the boy who was never hugged.
Growing up, I avoided all physical contact.
I made a few friends who knew I’d get agitated by a light tap.
Later, I was diagnosed with autism,
which gave my mom some sort of clarity —
or should I say “closure.”
