Silence was the language of my childhood. My autistic brother, Keane, rarely spoke, and over time, we all stopped expecting him to. He communicated in hums and routines—stacking blocks, folding clothes, staring at the sky for hours. When our parents died and he came to live with me, I thought I knew what to expect. Then my son Owen was born, and everything changed.
Owen was a screeching, sleepless tornado of a baby. Keane, meanwhile, was his usual quiet self—until the day I stumbled out of the shower to find Owen asleep in his arms. “He likes the humming,” Keane said, his voice so soft I almost missed it.
I nearly collapsed. He hadn’t spoken like that in years.
Suddenly, words started spilling out of him—not many, but enough. “The heater’s too loud.” “Owen prefers the yellow blanket.” Each sentence felt like a gift. But the real turning point came when Keane thought he’d hurt Owen. He panicked, whispering, “I ruined it,” over and over until I hugged him and said, “You’re allowed to make mistakes.”
That night, I realized I’d been the one who wasn’t listening. Keane had always had things to say. I just hadn’t given him the chance to say them.
Now, he’s Owen’s favorite person. And that hum I used to tune out? It’s the soundtrack to a love I almost missed.
