“Are you hungry?” I asked.
Nothing.
“Thirsty?”
He rocked faster.
I went to the kitchen and poured water into a yellow plastic cup I kept for when he visited. Those visits were rare—maybe twice a year, always short.
I brought the cup to him and set it on the floor an arm’s length away. He stopped rocking, looked at the cup, then went back to rocking.
That first night was worse.
I made chicken nuggets and fries for dinner because Rachel once told me that’s what he ate. Ethan took one look at the plate and turned away. I tried pasta. No. I tried a sandwich. He pushed it across the table.
“What do you want to eat?” I asked.
He hummed a low sound in his throat and stared at the wall.
I gave him crackers. He ate three.
Bedtime was a disaster.
I tried to help him brush his teeth and he screamed—not crying, screaming—like I was hurting him.
I stepped back and he stopped, but he was shaking.
“Okay,” I said. “Okay, you can skip it tonight.”
I put him in the guest room, tucked the blanket around him the way I thought kids liked. He threw it off. I tried again. He screamed.
I left the blanket at the foot of the bed and backed out of the room.
He didn’t sleep.
I could hear him humming all night, that same low sound over and over.
I didn’t sleep either.
Saturday morning, I called Rachel. No answer. I left a message.
“Rachel, honey, call me back. I need to know what Ethan eats, what his routines are.”
She didn’t call.
I called again Saturday night. Sunday morning. Sunday night.
Nothing.
One week became two.
I took Ethan to the pediatrician. The doctor confirmed what I already suspected.
“He’s autistic, Mrs. Cooper. Has anyone talked to you about getting him evaluated?”
“His mother was supposed to handle that.”
The doctor nodded slowly.
“Well, you’re handling it now.”
I enrolled him in therapy—speech, occupational, behavioral. I learned he needed the same breakfast every single day: scrambled eggs, toast cut corner to corner, nothing touching on the plate. I learned the route to therapy had to be exactly the same or he’d scream in the car. I learned not to touch him unless he initiated it. I got good at watching instead of doing.
