After our mom passed, my brother Keane moved in with us. He’s nonverbal autistic and hadn’t spoken a word since he was four. He’s always been gentle, quiet, and lived by his routines. We never forced anything — we just loved him for who he is.

One afternoon, while my baby Milo was napping, I hopped in the shower. Keane was in the living room with his headphones on, as usual. Then I heard Milo cry — and just as suddenly, silence.

Panicked, I ran out, still soaking wet — and froze in my tracks.

Keane was sitting in the armchair, holding Milo against his chest. Milo was fast asleep, and Keane was gently rubbing his back, just like I always do. Our cat Mango was curled up in his lap. The whole scene looked… peaceful. Like it had always been this way.

Then Keane looked at me and said — clearly, softly:

“He was scared. I gave him a heartbeat.”

I couldn’t speak. I just broke down and cried.

The next morning, Keane walked into the kitchen, looked me in the eye, and said:

“Coffee.”

Then, after a pause, he added — steady and sure:

“I’ll take care of Milo.”

My brother found his voice — through love, through connection, through being needed.
Through Milo.