Shampoo dripped into my mouth as I bolted from the shower, that distinctive newborn wail ringing in my ears. I skidded to a halt in the nursery doorway, confronted by a miracle.
There sat my brother Jonah, who therapists said might never speak, cradling my screaming infant with the expertise of a NICU nurse. His thumbs smoothed the space between the baby’s eyebrows – a trick I hadn’t taught him. The change was instantaneous; my son’s cries melted into contented sighs against Jonah’s chest.
Then came the whisper I’d waited twenty-eight years to hear: “Soft,” Jonah murmured, pressing his cheek to the baby’s downy head. Two days later, as I struggled with a diaper change, his voice came again, clear as spring water: “Let me help.”
Now when people ask how my brother “recovered” his speech, I show them the photo of him and my son asleep in the rocking chair, foreheads touching. Some doors only open when the right soul knocks.
