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, Keane, 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.
Keane 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.
