I always thought I understood silence.When you grow up with Keane, you learn early how to notice what others overlook—a slight shift in his eyes, the way his jaw tightened, how he lined up his pencils by color and length before starting homework. You learn patience too. Or at least, you learn how to pretend you have it. Keane was three when he was diagnosed. I was six.I don’t remember the exact conversation, but I remember what followed. The house became quieter. Mom was constantly exhausted. Dad snapped at strange things—crinkling snack bags, the TV volume being too high. And...
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