I used to think I understood silence. Growing up with Keane taught me to notice things others overlooked: a flicker in his eyes, a slight clench in his jaw, the precise way he lined up his pencils by color and size before starting homework. You either developed real patience—or learned to fake it well enough. Pretending was how we survived our childhood.
Keane was diagnosed when he was three. I was six. I don’t recall the exact moment we got the news, but I remember the shift that followed.
