I was only ten minutes into my shower. The baby was asleep, my husband had stepped out, and my brother Keane—quiet, gentle, and nonverbal since childhood—was in the living room, headphones on, lost in his puzzles.
Keane moved in after our mom passed. He rarely speaks but has always been a calm, comforting presence.
Then I heard the baby cry—sharp and sudden. I rushed out, dripping, only to freeze at the sight before me.
Keane was in my chair, the baby asleep on his chest. One hand gently rubbed Milo’s back—just like I do. Our cat lay curled in his lap. Everything was still. Safe.
Then Keane looked up and, after two silent decades, said:
“He was scared. I gave him a heartbeat.”I broke down.
The next morning, he added, “Coffee,” then looked me in the eyes and said,
“I’ll take care of Milo.”
That was the start. Milo gave Keane more than a bond—he gave him his voice.
