When my brother Keane was diagnosed with autism at the age of four, I was merely seven years old. I did not fully comprehend the situation—only that he was different from others. Teachers remarked that he should be with children “like him,” phrases that confused and pained me. Keane used to communicate in fragments, but by the age of four, he ceased to speak altogether.
Two years ago, following the passing of our mother, I welcomed Keane into my home. Sending him to an institution was never a consideration. Although my husband was initially hesitant, we both understood that Keane belonged with us.
A few months ago, I gave birth to my son, Milo. One morning, while Milo was peacefully asleep, I decided to take a quick bath. Keane was seated by the window as usual, wearing headphones and engrossed in solving puzzles. Suddenly, I heard Milo cry—then there was silence.
I hurried out, shampoo still in my hair, and halted at the nursery door. Keane was in the armchair, cradling Milo with one arm while gently patting his back with the other. Our cat Mango was resting in his lap. Then, Keane turned to me and uttered his first words in over two decades: “He was scared. I made him a heartbeat.”
I was overwhelmed with emotion.
The following morning, Keane accompanied me to the kitchen and requested “coffee.” He then looked me directly in the eyes and stated, “I will watch Milo.” For someone who had always shunned eye contact, this was a significant moment.
Milo’s arrival changed Keane in ways I had never anticipated. He discovered connection, purpose—and regained his voice.
