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 He rarely spoke, and after our parents died, he became even more withdrawn.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.

Exhausted from Owen’s endless crying, I stepped into the shower. Minutes later, panic hit—I heard Owen screaming. I rushed out, dripping, but froze in the doorway. Keane was in my armchair, Owen asleep on his chest, Mango the cat purring at his feet. And then, Keane looked up and whispered: “He likes the humming.”

It was the first sentence I’d heard from him in years. He explained it was like a lullaby app. Tears blurred my eyes. Something shifted that day. Keane began helping with Owen—feeding him, changing diapers, noticing details I missed. Slowly, he started speaking more. My husband called it “like having a roommate who woke up.”

But it wasn’t just incredible—it was humbling. I realized I’d mistaken silence for emptiness. Now, Keane volunteers at a sensory play center. Owen’s first word wasn’t “Mama” or “Dada.” It was “Keen.” “He likes the humming.” And I like the way we finally found each other again.