Claire did neither.
She asked about his job at the garden center. When he called his manager an idiot, she wanted to know why. When he told a joke, she laughed before telling him it wasn’t funny.
“It’s good joke,” Jamie protested.
“It’s a terrible joke. Tell me another one.”
He grinned triumphantly.
Then Claire sampled his soup.
“Needs salt.”
I nearly choked.
Jamie stared at her. “Get out of my house.”
“It’s your apartment,” Claire replied, taking another spoonful.
He laughed so hard he had to sit down.
Claire never treated him as less capable. When Jamie promised to do something, she expected him to follow through. I admired that quality in her, never imagining how painfully it would affect us later.
As we were leaving, Jamie knocked twice on the doorframe. Claire glanced at me, so I raised two fingers.
Without asking why, she knocked twice in return.
While she headed down to the car, Jamie leaned toward me.
“I like her.”
“Good.”
“You should marry her.”
“We’ve been dating three months.”
“You’re slow.”
Eleven months later, Claire and I got married.
For a while, the three of us were happy. Then an incident occurred, and Claire began seeing my brother differently.
I considered it an accident. Claire told me she’d forgiven him.
I wanted to believe her.
Yet she became tense whenever Jamie approached. She watched his hands and began taking objects away from him—a bag, a plate, a glass.
“I’ll do it.”
Jamie noticed, though he never complained.
Claire had always expected him to do things properly, just like everyone else. I’d once considered that a sign of respect.
But when she became pregnant, those expectations turned into fear.
Jamie, meanwhile, was delighted.
He counted down the weeks aloud, bought tiny socks with his own earnings, and proudly told every customer at the garden center that he would soon become an uncle.
When Sophie was born, Jamie stood in the hospital doorway and extended his hands.
“Can I hold her?”
Claire immediately pulled Sophie closer to her chest.
“No. Absolutely not.”
“Claire…” I said. “He’s held babies before.”
“And if he squeezes too hard? Drops her? Gets excited and forgets she isn’t a doll? I’m not experimenting with my daughter.”
Jamie’s arms slowly dropped.
“Okay.”
He slipped his hands into his pockets.
I looked at my wife, but she refused to meet my eyes.
Things deteriorated after we brought Sophie home.
Jamie visited every Sunday, and Claire would greet him at the door with hand sanitizer.
“Hands.”
“I washed already.”
“Wash again. For Sophie.”
He always complied.
One Sunday, he offered to help.
“I can feed her.”
Claire actually laughed at him.
“I already have one baby to watch. I’m not supervising you, too.”
Jamie’s expression went blank.
“Okay,” he replied, then headed into the hallway to collect his coat.
I pulled Claire into the kitchen.
“That was cruel. Don’t ever talk to him like that again.”
“I’m protecting my daughter.”
“From her uncle?”
She turned toward me.
“You weren’t the one he poured boiling water on.”
The kitchen fell silent.
Boiling water. That was how she described it now.
It had been soup.
Years earlier, Jamie was carrying a pot toward the table when Claire stepped directly into his path. They collided, spilling the soup over her arm and side.
She’d needed bandages for weeks afterward. Jamie apologized every single day.
“You said it was an accident,” I reminded her.
“It was. He didn’t mean to burn me. That’s the point.” She folded her arms. “What happens when he doesn’t mean to drop Sophie?”
“You used to tell him his jokes were bad. You used to treat him like a person.”
