At three, he knew every route number of every city bus that passed our neighborhood.
At four, he stopped speaking almost entirely for six months after we moved apartments.
At five, he surprised us by reading the instructions on the back of a fire extinguisher aloud.
At six, a pediatric specialist finally gave us a word that seemed to explain everything and nothing at the same time.
Autism.
I remember sitting in the parking lot after the appointment while David held my hand.
I cried.
Not because I was ashamed of Mason.
I cried because suddenly every stranger’s stare, every supermarket meltdown, every birthday party he couldn’t tolerate, every family member telling me he “just needed discipline” came rushing back at once.
I wanted the world to become softer for him.
Instead, I became harder.
Organized.
Protective.
Obsessive.
I made schedules.
Lists.
Visual charts.
Social stories.
I researched therapies and school accommodations until two in the morning.
