I had just spent five minutes in the shower.

I thought I had ample time to wash my hair before the next outburst because the baby had just fallen asleep. My brother, Daniel, was in the living room, as usual, with his headphones on, playing his matching puzzle app in the background like he does every day while my husband was out getting groceries.

Daniel is reticent to speak. Not when we were children. He is kind, dependable, and quietly charming. He currently resides with us. He simply nodded when we offered. To be honest, I wasn’t sure how it would turn out, but we managed to make it work.

Anyway, I heard the baby cry in the middle of the shampoo.

That piercing, fussy cry—the one that indicates I’m not feeling well. I felt sick to my stomach. With soap still in my ears and my heart racing, I hurried to rinse. Then there was stillness.

Complete quiet.

Half-expecting turmoil, I threw on a towel and hurried into the hallway.

I froze instead.

The infant was curled up on Daniel’s chest like a drowsy tiny loaf of bread while he sat in the armchair—my armchair. Like I do, one arm cradled the infant close while the other gently stroked his back in a soothing rhythm. And our cat, Pumpkin, was stretched out on Daniel’s lap, purring as if she owned the space.

They all three appeared to have done this a hundred times.

The infant was unconscious. Not a tear remained.

Daniel avoided eye contact with me. He didn’t have to.

I swear, I also lost my ability to breathe. Then, for the first time in a long time, Daniel whispered something.

“He was scared,” he said softly, almost like it hurt to push the words out. “I made him a heartbeat.”

I blinked. I believed it to be a dream. I gripped the cloth tightly at my chest. “What were you saying?”

Daniel looked down at the baby, his voice barely above a breath. “I made him a heartbeat. So he’d know someone was there.”

I needed to take a seat. I sat down on the ottoman and gazed at them and at him. Pumpkin looked at me like, “Don’t mess this up.” Before I knew it, my eyes had filled.

It had been years since Daniel was able to string so many words together.

I used to believe that I would never truly know him as a child. At the age of four, he received a diagnosis. I was seven years old. Before that, he had been speaking in short, baby sentences. However, the words had gradually slipped out of his mouth, like sand between fingers, until one day he simply stopped. He would point, make noises, and make movements. Not a full-on speech, though. For years, no.

In our own ways, we were close. Sometimes he allowed me to brush his hair. His toy vehicles would be arranged in rainbow sequence by us. However, he was not understood by most people. And you notice things like that when you’re young. He gave the grocery store a sidelong glance when he flapped his hands excessively. Perhaps he shouldn’t be in the same classroom as the others, the teachers remarked. The parents who refused to have their children visit.

I’ll also confess that I became exhausted. I felt ashamed. I was a teenager. I desired to be typical.

But as we grew older, something changed. I began to see him in a new light. As a complete person, not as a burden. Someone not empty, but quiet. Someone who simply followed his own path.

It became evident that Daniel couldn’t survive alone when our mother passed away. I could tell he wasn’t happy, even though he had been doing alright in the group home. I then enquired if he would like to remain with us. He gave a nod.

At first, my husband, James, was apprehensive. However, he changed his mind. Additionally, Daniel began to sit a little closer after the birth of our baby, Oliver. I’m watching more. It was almost as if he recalled something. or someone.

He was now doing what I had been doing every night, which was to use his hand to create a heartbeat and give me a steady pat in return. Holding my kid the way he was meant to be held.

Something changed that night. Not only in him. in each of us.

Daniel trailed me into the kitchen the following morning. It wasn’t common. He followed his regimen most of the time. Same cereal, same puzzle game, same window seat.

“Coffee,” he said. Only one word. However, it prevented me from scooping.

I said, “You want coffee?”

He gave a headshake. “Create it,” he urged. “I’ll watch Oliver.”

I blinked. “Want to watch him by yourself?”

After nodding, he gestured towards the infant monitor.

So I brewed the coffee. I did it with my heart in my throat.

Every thirty seconds, I took a quick glimpse into the living room. I didn’t have to, though. Oliver was all right. More than acceptable. He was swatting at the threads of his hoodie while swooning at his uncle. Daniel was humming. Humming.

Then it became a reality. Daniel began to assist more. Hands shaking when changing nappies. Bottles are heated. picking up pacifiers that have fallen. allowing Oliver to gnaw on his fingers as if they were teething rings.

The twist then appeared.

About a month later, it happened one afternoon. Half-watching Daniel and Oliver play with stacking cups on the rug, I was folding laundry. Daniel’s voice was slow and quiet as he narrated.

“Blue cup.” It goes here. The red one. Too large. Try once more.

I hadn’t heard him talk so much since we were young.

My phone then buzzed. A number I was unaware of.

“Hello?”

A pause. Then the voice of a woman. “Hello, is Hannah Carter here?”

“Yes?”

“This is Susan from your mother’s former assisted living facility, Glenhaven. I realise it’s been a long time, but something happened. connected to her belongings. I wanted to know if you had a minute.”

Glenhaven. My chest constricted. After a gradual deterioration due to early-onset dementia, my mother passed away over two years ago. It had been a mess. unpleasant. Even though he didn’t fully comprehend, Daniel had sobbed as we cleaned out her room.

Susan continued, “We mistakenly filed away a storage box and mislabeled it while we cleaned up her belongings.” It was discovered during renovations. It contains a voice recorder, letters, and a few pictures.

“A voice recorder?”

“Yes. It’s dated about four years ago. It’s labeled, ‘For Daniel and Hannah.’ We can mail it to you, or you’re welcome to come by.”

I almost dropped the phone. “I’ll be there.”

I didn’t immediately tell Daniel. First, I wanted to listen. By themselves.

I sat in the kitchen with the recorder that night after everyone had gone to sleep. It was a little, antiquated device. I hit the play button.

“Hi sweethearts,” came my mother’s voice, raspy and warm. “If you’re hearing this, I’m probably gone. I’m sorry I didn’t say everything I should’ve while I was here.”

She hesitated. Next:

“Hannah, I know you always felt like you had to carry everything. You were just a kid, and I leaned on you too hard. I’m sorry for that.”

More quiet.

“Daniel… my beautiful boy. I hope you’re safe. I hope you feel love, even if I didn’t always show it right. You taught me patience. You taught me how to see differently. You don’t have to talk to be heard. But I always hoped, someday, you would.”

One more pause.

“Remember how I used to sing you that lullaby? The one you favoured in times of fear?”

Then, as plain as day, my mum started singing. Not on key. Slow. delicate.

“You are the only thing that makes me happy.”

I cried.

I showed Daniel the recorder the following morning. He handled it carefully. hit the play button. Wide-eyed and still, they listened.

He turned to face me after the lullaby was over. Next, at Oliver.

“Sunshine,” he mumbled.

For a week, he listened to that recording every morning. The ukulele my husband had left in the closet was then picked up by him one day. Daniel is not a player. Or he didn’t.

He did, however, pluck a few uncomfortable notes. He practiced every single day. hardly talking. I’m just trying.

Oliver then asked whether he may participate in the celebration on his first birthday.

The backyard was where we were. Frosted cupcakes, neighbours, and friends. I didn’t know what he meant when I said yes.

Daniel got to his feet. The ukulele was cradled. He cleared his throat.

And sung.

“My sunshine is you.”

His voice broke. However, it belonged to him. Off-key and shaky, just like Mom’s. but brimming with something genuine.

There was silence in the yard. Everyone clapped after that.

I was crying so much that I was unable to cut the cake.

After that, people began to view Daniel in a different way. Not as a broken person. But as a courageous person. Even talented. For neurodivergent adults, a friend of ours who worked at the library offered to create a low-stimulation music club. Daniel now attends every Tuesday. demonstrates mastery of three chords. He even assists in the classroom.

He doesn’t always speak. It’s still challenging. When he does, though, it’s always worth listening to.

And now every night while I’m putting Oliver to sleep, he asks, “Sunshine?” as he reaches for Daniel’s room.

They currently sing the song.

I had assumed that the focus of our story would always be Daniel’s limitations.

It’s about everything he can do now.

He might never speak much. However, his presence? His affection? A whole house may be filled with the sound.

And he demonstrated what true connection looks like to me in the most private moment, when I thought no one was looking.

Occasionally, the individuals we believe we are caring for wind up caring for us.