I’ve been sitting with the reality that this world will never see my son’s heart before they see his color. By Kai McGee
We pull ornaments from boxes labeled in my mother’s loopy cursive, giving our tree the same homespun look hers always had. By Mary Janevic
If my mother is not here, who will show up to bring me flowers when I am vacuumed out,
cells gone, clean, neat, dark, unseeded? By Emily Franklin
We don’t want our boys to be “cured.” There is no cure; autism is a chronic state, like arthritis, or love. By Elizabeth Michaelson Monaghan
“Why is she like that?” my son asks. I hesitate. There’s no denying my mother’s passive aggressive disdain towards me. By Elizabeth Maria Naranjo
After surgery, a mother comes to terms with the reality that a clean house is not the same as a loving home.
By Leslie Kendall Dye
Without saying so, Mama let us know we kids could sometimes rock her world, but we couldn’t be her world.
By Ylonda Gault Caviness