I always thought I understood silence. Growing up with my brother Keane, I learned to pay attention to the quiet things—a flicker in his eyes, the way he’d line up pencils by size and color, the subtle signs most people might miss. He didn’t speak, but he communicated in his own way. You learn patience. Or at least, how to pretend.
Keane was diagnosed with autism when he was three. I was six. I don’t remember the day we found out, but I remember what changed. Our house got quieter. My mom became exhausted. My dad was easily overwhelmed by little things—too much noise, the wrong cartoon at the wrong time. And me? I learned how to disappear into the background.
But Keane stayed the same. Gentle. Quiet. Sometimes smiling—usually at ceiling fans or clouds. He didn’t talk. Not then. Not really ever.
Until one ordinary Tuesday.
Life had been hectic. My baby, Owen, was six months old and in the middle of a very noisy phase. My husband, Will, was working long hours, and I was barely holding things together. We had taken Keane in six months earlier, after our parents passed away. He had spent some time in state care, but I wanted him with us—part of our family again.
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