My brother, who has Down syndrome, had been hiding something in his bag. My wife feared he might hurt our baby. I insisted she was wrong, though I couldn’t explain what was happening. Then, one night, our baby’s scream changed everything.
When Mom died from a stroke, I was twenty-four, and Jamie was sixteen.
Jamie has Down syndrome, and Mom had always been the center of his world.
Three days later, during her funeral, everyone offered the same words.
“If you need anything, call me.”
“Anything at all.”
By four that afternoon, the church was nearly deserted.
Jamie remained in the front pew, tugging at his oversized tie.
“Where do I live now?”
I turned toward him. His eyes were fixed on the floor.
“With me.”
“For how long?”
“What do you mean?”
He shrugged. “Until you get married?”
Something inside my chest broke.
“Jamie, you’re my brother. You’re not going anywhere.”
He gave a small nod.
I wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “Come on, Jamie-Bamie. Let’s go home.”
I had no idea those words would shape the next thirteen years of my life. Even if I’d known, I would have said them.
The first time Jamie rode the bus alone, I sent him a text before it even pulled away.
Call me when you get there, Jamie-Bamie.
“You said I do it myself,” he complained when he finally phoned.
“You can do it yourself and still call me.”
“I did. I’m calling.”
“Good.”
“Bye.”
