A Tribute to Dad: We Didn’t Know About Autism
When I found out about neurodiversity, everything changed
Dad, my sister, and I were marooned that first Christmas after my mother died. It didn’t matter that at 48, I was the youngest of us — Mom was gone, and we had no ballast. It would be another two years before I unpacked the story of that holiday, when I got involved with someone who had potential.
We were talking in the way of new lovers, surprising ourselves with our wealth of material. I wasn’t looking for an interpretation so much as a witness, because when I looked into his golden-brown eyes, I knew he was listening. By this time in my life, I’d lived all over the world and spent years in therapy and addiction recovery. I knew my shortcomings and understood my family dynamics. Or so I thought.
That night, I was telling him about that first holiday after Mom was diagnosed with cancer. The four of us watching a movie when out of nowhere my sister Tess took Dad’s shoes off the coffee table and put them on the floor. I found my mother’s eyes across the room—nothing good could come of this.
My father is the type of man who stays fully dressed until he goes to bed. This includes wearing shoes. Other than pool- or oceanside, I couldn’t recall seeing his feet bare, or his footgear lying idle, let…
