What does a family talk about while driving to your brother’s execution?

When my brother was born July 26, 1962, on New York’s Long Island, he didn’t even get his own name.

“We mouthed our silent goodbyes to each other, the three of us. Michael mouthed the words ‘It’s over.‘ “

One hour after Michael’s death, my mother heard a faint whisper in her ear.
“Mom, mom. I am here. I am here. I’m OK,” it said.

My reason for sharing my brother’s story has nothing to do with courage. I don’t believe what I’ve done is brave.