My hair is braided neatly.
And there's no fear in either of our faces.
Sometimes I look at that photograph and remember how different life might have been if my brother hadn't made the call.
I don't spend every day imagining the worst outcome.
But I understand how important the moment was.
One person chose to believe me.
One person preserved what was happening.
And one person refused to accept that an adult's words were automatically more trustworthy than a child's fear.
My brother is thirty-one now.
He's married, has a little daughter of his own, and still calls me whenever he thinks I'm working too hard.
His daughter is four.
She has beautiful dark curls and an enormous personality.
When she visits, she immediately searches for the basket of toys I keep beneath my coffee table.
She calls me her favorite aunt.
My brother insists she says that to everyone.
I choose not to believe him.
Sometimes she asks me to braid her hair.
I sit behind her with a comb, a little bowl of hair ties, and far more patience than I had when I was younger.
I always ask whether the style feels comfortable.
If she says something hurts, I stop.
And when she turns around to inspect the finished result, I wait for her opinion before declaring the job complete.
My brother watches us sometimes.
He smiles.
Then he tells his daughter that Auntie learned from the best.
I raise an eyebrow.
"Who?"
He grins.
"Your dad."
I laugh.
Because Dad's first attempts at braiding were terrible.
But the love behind them changed more than he knew.
Our father is sixty now.
He still works, although not nearly as much as he once did. He has handed most of the daily business responsibilities to younger managers and spends more time traveling, visiting family, and restoring the old lake cottage.
He's quieter than he used to be.
Maybe age does that.
Maybe experience does.
He still tells me I need to check the oil in my car.
He still calls my brother to ask whether he has enough time away from work.
And whenever his granddaughter visits, he immediately becomes the least serious person in the room.
He makes pancakes shaped like animals.
He reads bedtime stories using ridiculous voices.
And he never complains when she asks him to read the same book twice.
Sometimes I watch them together and wonder whether he's remembering the years when my brother and I were small.
Maybe he is.