His expression hardened.
“Nobody.”
“You came up with that?”
“Yes.”
“I just thought maybe Mom or Mr. Warren helped you word—”
“Claire.”
Something in his voice stopped me.
He placed the fry carton beside him.
“I have Down syndrome.”
“I know.”
“I am not stupid.”
My stomach dropped.
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You think people help me with everything.”
“No.”
He raised an eyebrow.
And suddenly I couldn’t lie.
Because maybe I did.
Not consciously.
Not cruelly.
But sometimes I corrected Ethan before giving him time to answer.
Sometimes I spoke for him at restaurants.
Sometimes I explained jokes he already understood.
Sometimes I asked Mom whether he could handle something instead of asking Ethan.
I had spent years becoming furious whenever other people underestimated my brother.
And somehow I’d started doing my own version of the exact same thing.
“I worry,” I whispered.
Ethan nodded.
“Yes.”
“About you.”
