When I walk by Daniel’s room, it is dark. The moon hangs low outside, casting a ray of faint light through his window and onto the bottom corner of his bed. But he is awake. I know this because just seconds earlier he was singing “Out of My League” by Fitz and the Tantrums, and I can hear the rattling of chopsticks in his hands.

I walk in. His back is to me, and he’s sitting upright—not even the slightest bit in bed. I draw out the words so as not to startle him. “Good niiiiiight,” I say, placing my hand on his shoulder and kissing the top of his head. He is in a cross-legged position as a child might be—but he is forty-three years old, and he is autistic. The song is one of many that he sings to self-soothe, the chopsticks are one of several transitional objects he affixes himself to for any period of time. Sometimes, the chopsticks alone won’t do—sometimes, he likes to take toothpaste from our dad’s bathroom and cover them in this: leveling up their complexity, increasing their worth.

As I lift my head up from his, I offer him the same three words I do every night we sleep under the same roof—on Sundays, when I drive forty-five minutes from my Chicago condo to our dad’s suburban home.

“I love you.”

A stillness comes over the room.

I am thirty-four—nine years his junior—and of all of the moments I’ve feared unrequited love in my life, it is this one that I fear most. The feelings I’d had for the boys of grammar school, high school, college—they don’t compare to this kind of love. The stakes were never as high.

I pause a moment, giving him the space he might need to find the words. When nothing comes, I head towards the door.

The thing about those other guys is that I could trust in the fact that they understood the same love that I did.

Also—those other guys were not my brother.

When Daniel turned two years old and still wasn’t talking, our parents worried. They, medical professionals themselves, suspected it—but got confirmation two years later. Autism, low functioning. His first word—“Dada.” His second? “No.”

The latter was one he exclaimed with great fear every time he saw a container of sour cream. On one occasion, after I had come back from the grocery store and placed a pint of it in the fridge, I returned from the bathroom and opened the cooler, only to find that it was missing. After poring over the shelves for five minutes, I looked in the garbage and discovered it there. I’ve never understood Daniel’s vehement opposition to the dairy product, and likely never will. And yet, when I asked him why he elected to do away with it that day, his brusque answer seemed to make all of the sense in the world: “On purpose.”

At forty-three, his most recently learned words, by my count: “chilling out” and “TBD”—to be determined. Because so much, Daniel, is not in this world—as you well know. I share these terms with him on Sundays, when my dad brings him home after picking him up from his group residence. I drive up north from the city to meet them, and, like clockwork, Daniel begins the petitions as soon as I enter the front door. “Take me to Target.” For what? A Coca-Cola. Or to Starbuck’s, Jewel-Osco, Love’s Yogurt. For a latte, Parmesan Goldfish crackers, chocolate ice cream. I am often reminded of the fact that food is one of his only joys in life—at least, from what I am able to glean by his often rapturous interest in it. “OK, Daniel,” I say. “But right now, it’s TBD— right now, I just walked in the door, and we’re just chilling out.” He repeats my words, but when he says them, they come out more like “shilling out” and “TPD.” These words are new to him.

Often, these requests will start with another word in his lexicon: “Nicole.” He incorporates it into sentences when it’s a topic of import—“Nicole, take me to Whole Foods,” or “Nicole, we will go to Starbucks.” He likely calls upon my name as a way of reassuring himself that he will be better heard (he started calling our dad by his first name—“Gene”—more than a decade ago; a surefire way to garner immediate attention), but, in doing so, he does me a favor too. When he says my name, I instantly feel seen. I feel important to him: necessary—and, like that, one of my life’s greatest purposes feels, if only for a moment, fulfilled.

Love, by definition: 1. An intense feeling of deep affection. 2. Per 1 Corinthians—patient, kind, rejoices in the truth. 3. An emotional attachment.

May 19, 1976. A mother holds her first child in her arms minutes after delivery, staring at him to see her big, brown eyes reflected back to her. Nine months in the making, a connection is formed that can no longer be undone. No matter the lack of eye contact or disinterest in being held, hugged, that will come. No matter what they say four years later at the doctor’s office, when they confirm that our parents’ deepest fears, unimaginable thoughts—they are true. “He won’t be able to connect with others,” the doctors say. Our parents hold each other’s hands and look at their four-year-old child, now on our mom’s lap, a tear inching its way down her cheek. Daniel stares into the distance.

Autism, by definition: “A serious developmental disorder that impairs the ability to communicate and interact.” Its universal logo? A puzzle piece, to signify the mystery about what causes the disorder—and the utter confusion about how language is processed and interpreted in an autistic mind. Language like three words: “I love you.”

I’ll admit, Daniel, I don’t always know how to use such words, myself. Exhibit A) When I stared back at a boyfriend in his car after he had said the words, and I mustered, “Thank you.” Exhibit B) When I kissed a different boyfriend at a later date after his delivery of the phrase—a distraction to words altogether.

The first time I heard “Je t’aime” was in French class. I was twelve years old. The words were lost on me but the sound was lovely; it was a sound I wanted to repeat and hear and repeat and hear all of the days of my life because they felt good to my ears, and they felt good and right in my soul. It’s like these words were looking for a home, and that day, they found it in me.

When I was twenty-four, I spent a year in France teaching English. Upon returning to the States, my dad starts texting me every night. “Going to bed—love you.” This begins, I presume, to make up for the communication we rarely had during the year apart. And, perhaps, as a way of him hearing the words repeated back to him: to ensure that a year and an ocean apart wouldn’t render them untrue. When I turn in for bed first, the text—carrying the same words—stems from me, a chance to know we are still unconditionally loved by those who have no choice but to love us. Family.

This texting ritual eventually expands to include my other brother, Kevin, who lives in California. If Daniel could receive and respond to texts, he would surely be on the chain. When I’m close to responding with a funny anecdote only Daniel would appreciate—like that time he asked the elderly woman at the grocery store to get up from the handicapped chair with the kindest of words—“Move, lady”—I have to remind myself that he isn’t.

How do we use the words? Recklessly, often. Or not often enough. Now I try to use them with intention, towards this being in my life whom I would do anything for, and, from whom, expect nothing in return. Even the utterance of the same three words.

In order for Daniel to understand love, of course, I would also have to give him the agency to understand forgiveness. For many instances.

Like the time I yelled at him when he opened twelve previously sold boxes of Girl Scout cookies the year that I sold the very most in my troop—age ten.

For my embarrassment of him when I was young and in school and trying to be cool and in complete denial of having a brother who was different from other people’s brothers.

For the time I scolded him for eating the entire box of Nut Thins and a fourteen-dollar jar of almond butter I had in my room (it was my fault, really, for buying fourteen-dollar almond butter).

For the time he had to endure two group home moves within two years because their staff couldn’t deal with his “unpredictable behavior.”

For the time when the police inadvertently tasered another group home client to death.

For the time his high school aide punched him in the face, too late for us to recognize this aide was completely ill fit to work with Daniel. And for my being too young—sixteen—not to have the gall to find said aide, sit him down, and remind him of the fact that he was never to come within twenty miles of my brother ever again. Ever. Again.

For the time his mother died when he was twenty-one years old. Lymphoma.

For the times that followed that he would be missing his mother— significantly—the touch of her hand along his head, her kiss, her Jessica McClintock perfume, the way she cooked up the perfect home fries—and within all of these possible reflections of his, the ignorance of his remaining
family members for never having been able to perceive it.

For the times he didn’t understand, day after day, where she went. Would
she come back. When.

To believe that Daniel understood love also meant giving him the agency to remember the ways we have tried to show him love.

Ways like birthday cakes. The calls to our dad requesting to speak with Daniel so I could ask him what kind—chocolate or vanilla—he wanted this year. It’s a question that might be in vain because he changes his order on every occasion for reasons I’m not privy to—but I don’t care because it’s his birthday, and every living fiber in me is going to give him whatever he damn well pleases.

The chopsticks that he began pillaging from the Whole Foods sushi section without ever considering actually eating sushi (over fried chicken? Pass). Soon enough, I encourage this, grabbing chopsticks on my own grocery visits when the sushi chefs aren’t looking, upping his collection from ten sets to
eleven. Then, twelve.

The special stops at Fannie May for sugar-free candy, no matter how long the lines on Christmas Eve, because his type 2 diabetes and weight of 330 pounds now means he is deprived of one more joy in this life.

The nonprofit I am starting in his honor, to raise money for the group homes of the special needs community in Illinois in the wake of the state budget crisis.

The forty-seventh Slinky I buy him when he decides to tangle every one that came before it in record-breaking time—then ask for another.

The city to suburbs drives to get a front row seat for his recreational association plays, like Peter Pan, when he was cast as Captain Hook.

And, Daniel, the thing is—I know you do. You do remember.

Once, when we were waiting to board a flight for Florida to celebrate Daniel’s forty-first birthday, I had my computer open to a photo of our dad and mom holding Daniel on their laps. He was two; they had yet to discover the news. Everyone was oozing joy. Daniel was sitting next to me at the airport, polishing off a bag of pepperoni pizza Combos. Beyond food—and Slinkys for ten minutes—I wasn’t aware of much that seemed to hold his interest. I showed him the photo, expecting him to glance at it for an instant and then look away. He didn’t. He looked at it for a long while. When I pointed to our mom and asked him who it was, he waited a bit longer.

“My buddy,” he said.

I waited a moment, then asked again.

“Mom,” he said, continuing to stare into the photo.

He didn’t look away from her. He maintained eye contact.

Love. For us—for you and me, Daniel—is trust. A lifelong companionship. An understanding that we are on the same page—that I have your back, and you have mine.

I have etched in my memory a time when I felt that we were distinctly on the same page. It was at the beach in San Diego—Daniel’s fortieth birthday weekend. The sun was setting, the sand was turning cooler, and Daniel wanted to swim. He ran—in the adorable, penguin-like wobble that he’s capable of with his weight, trunks slipping as he went—into the water. He was resolute, sure of it; he knew that what awaited him would be good. I, on the other hand, was a bit more skeptical.

Life without Mom.

I waded calf-deep and “ooh”-ed and “ahh”-ed as ice-cold water pummeled my Chicago winter skin. Within seconds, my toes were happily adapted to the chill; my other extremities still unquestionably unwilling to join in the fun. Then, I looked up at Daniel. He had already submerged himself entirely underwater and was not waiting long for the next opportunity. I had no idea where he mustered the courage.

Life as we aged, as friends married off and became parents, as I, still single and clinging to a past life of a full family, became lonelier than ever.

I tiptoed my way towards him, careful not to let any inch of skin touch the surface that didn’t need to, and watched him. He was smiling, humming indistinctly, splashing water all around him.

And I trusted him.

“Daniel,” I said. “Can we do this together?”

“Yes,” he said, smile wide. I grabbed his hands and looked at him. “I’m a little scared to do this on my own—I need your help,” I said. He hummed backed to me, so I proceeded, asking him if we could count to three. “Yes,” he replied, this time high-pitched and sing-songy.

One. Two.

It happened on three, which Daniel pronounced as “free.” A laughter so giddy from both of us that started above the surface and carried us underneath, submerged so that we were free from the world as we both knew it. And, for a millisecond, nothing could come between us. For an instant, it was just an older brother encouraging his little sister: a shared realization that we were stronger together than we were apart.

When we came up for air, we were still laughing. I looked down, a bit bewildered, to see that Daniel hadn’t tried to pull away—he was still holding my hands. The sting of salt water in my eyes beckoned my hands, but I wasn’t pulling away either. “Again?” I asked. “Yes,” he said, still giggling.

One. Two.

And for a fleeting moment in time, the language we spoke was shared. Underneath the surface, we tasted the same salt water, heard the same gurgling of exhaled air, and knew that our version of love for each other was one and the same.

I’m at the edge of his room, about to exit, when I hear him say it.

“I love you, Nicole.”

I bow my head in acceptance, wondering what I did to deserve not three words, but four.

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