The water was still running down my back when I heard the cry. That piercing wail only newborns can produce. My heart stopped mid-beat as I fumbled with the shower knob, shampoo stinging my eyes. In the five seconds it took to grab a towel, the crying stopped. The silence terrified me more.
I found them in the nursery bathed in afternoon light. My brother Liam, who hadn’t spoken a word since childhood, sat perfectly still in the rocking chair with my baby girl nestled against his chest. His large hands, usually restless, moved with surprising gentleness as they traced comforting circles on her back. Our elderly Labrador sighed contentedly at his feet, completing the scene of unexpected peace.
Then Liam looked up and shattered my world with three whispered words: “She needed me.” Twenty-three years of silence broken because of this tiny life we now shared. The towel slipped from my hands as tears mixed with the water still dripping from my hair.
