I’d only been in the shower for ten minutes.
The baby had just gone down, and I figured I had enough time to wash my hair before the next meltdown. My husband was out grabbing groceries, and my brother, Keane, was in the living room—same spot as always, headphones on, silently playing his matching puzzle app like he does every afternoon. Keane doesn’t talk much. Hasn’t since we were kids. He’s gentle, predictable, sweet in his own quiet way. He lives with us now. When we offered, he just nodded. I wasn’t sure how it’d work out, honestly—but we’ve made it work.
Anyway, mid-shampoo, I heard the baby cry.
That sharp, fussy wail—the one that means I’m not okay. My stomach dropped. I rushed to rinse, heart pounding, soap still in my ears. But then… silence.
Total silence.
I threw on a towel and raced into the hallway, half-expecting chaos.
Instead, I froze.
