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And yet, I knew how adults acted too. I knew the way they forced smiles and turned away.
    He went on, unaware of my turmoil. “When people meet you, they’re not sure how to behave. That’s true. Look at the whole handicapped versus handi-capable debate. Or even better, look at how I handled your stutter at the restaurant. It’s the same thing. If somebody offers to help, they worry they’re treating you like an invalid. If they don’t, then they worry they’re being insensitive. If they see you struggling with something, they don’t know if you want assistance, or if you want to do it yourself. They don’t know if they should acknowledge that your arm is missing or not. No matter what, they worry they’re being politically incorrect. Worse, they worry they’ll offend you. And so they do the only thing they can think to do—they pretend not to notice, because it’s better to be oblivious than to be uncaring.”
    I sat in silence, weighing his words, trying to look at it from somebody else’s point of view.
    “I’d like you to meet my sister. She handles these things differently than you.”
    “Better, you mean.”
    He shrugged. “No, not necessarily. She can be a bit extreme. But she might help you get a bit of perspective.” He shrugged again, smiling. “Look, you’re fine. I was just making conversation, not trying to force you to reevaluate your outlook on life, you know? You don’t need to meet her. You don’t need to change a damn thing. I’m only trying to help.” He winked at me. “But only if you want it.”

Two days later, I met June. She was shorter than Nick and me by several inches, with wild, dark brown hair. The only thing that gave her away as Nick’s sister was her eyes. They were identical to Nick’s.
    “Hey, big brother,” she said. And then she turned to me. “You must be Owen.” She waved her shortened right arm at me. “Look at us! Aren’t we a pair?”
    She was like a whirlwind in the small apartment, petting the dogs, talking a hundred miles a minute, playing Annoying Little Sister to Nick’s Stern Big Brother to a tee. I was immediately aware of the way she used her amputated arm. She gestured with it. She used it to smack Nick in the arm, to adjust the headband that held her hair out of the way, to hold the beer Nick handed her. My mother had always encouraged me not to use it, because using it drew attention to it. “For Christ sake, Owen,” she would say, “use your good arm!” When I wore long-sleeved shirts, she’d tuck my cuff into my pocket, as if people might not realize something was wrong with my arm. As if they’d think I was standing with my hand in my pocket. But every time she did it, I’d end up trying to use my arm and pulling the sleeve free, and then she’d cringe at the way it flapped loose at my side.
    I watched June using her arm like anybody would, and I felt a twinge of sadness. But mostly, I felt angry. I’d always known my mother was embarrassed by my arm, but for some reason, it had never occurred to me to blame her for that fact. I’d always subscribed to her view that I’d wronged her, or at the very least, that the universe and biology had wronged her. But I’d never blamed her. Even when I’d realized that most of my stuttering seemed to hinge upon her and her reaction to it, I hadn’t ever felt she was in the wrong.
    Why was that?
    Nick and June were still talking, discussing some cousin who had come home from college pregnant, and I found myself back at Regina’s piano, idly playing as I contemplated my relationship with my mother until June bounced in and sat on the bench next to me.
    “Teach me,” she said.
    “I d-don’t know how to play.”
    “You were playing when I came in.”
    I blushed. “Just ‘Frère Jacques.’ It’s the only song I know.”
    “So?” she said, as if it were inconsequential. “Teach me.”
    I showed her the song, but sitting side by side as we were, with our good arms together, our