I always thought I understood silence. Growing up with Keane, you learn to notice things most people overlook—a flick of his eyes, a slight twitch of his jaw, the way he’d line up his pencils by color and size before doing homework. You also learn patience, or at least how to fake it. Because pretending was what got us through most of childhood.
Keane was diagnosed when he was three. I was six. I don’t recall the exact moment they told us, but I remember the change. Our house became quieter. Mom grew tired. Dad got angry at strange things, like the sound of crinkling chip bags or cartoons playing too loudly. I became good at blending into the background.
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