About a month ago, I had “the talk” with our youngest child.

He’s adopted. In his early 20’s now, I became his bonus mom over 14 years ago.

He’s also autistic, with a side of mild Tourette’s.

I have a rapport with him. I understand him. I see him as he is – and love him where he is.

So I said the word that needed to be said …

“So I hear you have heard you are autistic”.

Silence. As he digested my frank statement from the seat next to me, I chewed on the fact that allegedly his father had said it, and he had overheard it. However he had finally heard it, it was time to bring it into the light, and take the onus off of it.

I knew the rumor was impossible, because his father doesn’t talk about him when he is anywhere around. We are sensitive to his emotionality, and didn’t want him to hear about it like this.

“Yes” he responded.

“Do you know what that means?” I said.

More silence.

We then had a long talk about autism. About the neuropsychologist his father and I took him to when he was in middle school. How we knew he was autistic then, and how we wanted him to get help, to be the most he could be.

And why that didn’t happen.

He processed all that. He doesn’t work, doesn’t go to school, doesn’t drive and probably never will, and hasn’t been able to begin to reach the potential inside.

A lot of this is because his biggest advocate was a nurse who happened to be his stepmother. Not wicked, but right – and isn’t that just as bad?

I’ve got appointments for him with a neurologist. Finally -FINALLY! – he will get the evaluation so long overdue. He’s an adult now, and wants to understand why he is different.

He knows he is loved – and he is loving in return.

I’m glad I can facilitate getting the help he should’ve gotten so long ago.

Hopefully, together, we can help him have a better life.