Only when he’s out of sight and safely in his room do I allow myself to cry. I don’t know if the tears are: relief at surviving the worst of it, heartache at knowing something’s gone wrong and I’ve missed it or more palpable than that the ache I push to the back of my mind where I wish his life was more like his brother and sisters. The life I imagined for him when he was nestled in my tummy the life where he fitted in and enjoyed a carefree childhood like other kids his age, a life where Autism doesn’t silently cloud every experience.
Happiness is a Sunbeam 