I thought I understood silence. Growing up with my brother Keane, diagnosed at three, I learned to read small gestures instead of words. He rarely spoke, and after our parents died, he became even more withdrawn. Six months ago, I brought him to live with us just as I was having my baby, Owen. Keane mostly kept to himself—folding laundry, playing games, humming constantly. I barely noticed it anymore. Until one Tuesday.
