At nineteen, I became the person my autistic little brother depended on when our parents gave up on him. Six years later, I finally let him enter a grocery store alone. But when a cashier ran outside in tears, I feared the independence we’d worked so hard for had ended in disaster.
When Theo was nine, our mother sat me down at the kitchen table and told me he would be “better somewhere equipped for kids like him.”
She said it gently. That made it worse.
I was nineteen, and I remember staring at her new wedding ring and thinking, Equipped? He’s not a dishwasher.
That made it worse.
I said no. Just no.
Then I spent the next six years learning everything. Medication schedules. Sensory triggers. Which cereal Theo ate when the whole world felt too loud.
By fifteen, Theo could cook eggs, ride the bus with me, and do laundry.
