Moses is six days old when Miryam sends him down the river; he is doomed, and lost, and abandoned, and uncut. She crouches over his basket and regrets this with a burn not solely her own; Miryam is not so old herself, but she is old enough. There are her feelings, and there are the others, and for once, they are in accord.
Moses is uncut. Moses will never grow to be the Hebrew he is. Moses sleeps peacefully as he drifts away. No one is ever quite their brother’s keeper.
This night is different from all other nights; never again does she send a brother down the river. Of course, it is far from the last time she masks her sobs with the rustle of bulrushes.
Aaron hates his brother. This will not be written, this will not be told; when Aaron dies, the house of Israel weeps, for he is good and pure and shackled to peace. He is a kind man, Aaron. His bitterness is a salve, in its way. He sees Moses and knows he is the Prophet; he sees Moses and knows he brings Deliverance; he sees Moses and recalls the other shackles, those that Moses did not wear. He is a good man, Aaron. He speaks of peace. He hates his brother.
Miryam does not ever tell him she knows, of course. That is not the role of women, who are meant to observe, but never speak; this is not the role of women, whose bodies are built to be fruitful, whose mouths are built to be closed.
It would be hypocritical, in any case. She sees the shackles too, when she looks at Moses; when she looks at Aaron, she sees the nights he never spent, the refusals he never had to keep from uttering. She is a good sister. She hates them both.