He still comes to my house sometimes on Sunday afternoons, the way he always used to, and he still helps Eli build ridiculous dinosaur forts out of couch cushions in the living room. But something between us shifted that week in a way I don’t think will ever fully shift back. I love my brother. I will always love my brother. But I don’t think I’ll ever again mistake his silence for something harmless.
Last weekend, Claire sent me a photo. June, five months old now, sitting up on a blanket in that same pale green nursery, reaching for one of the little felt stars that had fallen from the mobile. Daniel is in the background of the photo, out of focus, actually inside the room this time. Sitting on the floor. Watching her.
The family I nearly broke my own body carrying into existence isn’t perfect. It might never be. But for the first time since I placed that baby back into her mother’s arms, I believe they’re actually going to be okay — not because the secret disappeared, but because there isn’t one left to hide.
