When Whispers Break

Little one.

Let me hold you close. Here, now.

Outside the window, November’s branches bend in the wind. There is an air of festivity in the hospital. Thanksgiving is less than two weeks away.

You are my third baby in as many years. Once we are home, life will feel busy. I long to hold on to this moment. 

Again and again, I will return to this room. I will think of this morning. I will remember the curve of your face and your soft newborn sigh.

If we concentrate hard enough, we can squint into the future and see all the different versions you become.

Small, outstretched palms, shaking from a nightmare about Big Foot coming into your room at night.

Middle school, standing on stage for the school play – noticeably taller, the baby fat melted from limb and face. 

In your baseball uniform, fresh off the mound, bursting through the door with a birthday gift for your brother.

Senior year of high school. A banquet for the basketball team. A week prior, the coach made whispers amongst the players. You. Most Valuable Player.

Minutes before it all started, whispers were broken. He took you aside and said he changed his mind. You didn’t give enough.

When the new name was announced, I tried to make out your face across the room. I watched you clap and smile, but your eyes told a different story. My heart shattered.

I am instantly transported back here. I trace your newborn ears. I wonder what color your eyes will be.

This is motherhood. 

We try to predict the future. Yet from the maternity ward, it is impossible to foresee the visceral pain of watching your child hurt in a way you cannot fix.

The truth is, you will likely never be rewarded for what are perhaps your greatest gifts.

See, little baby, you are an autism sibling. You didn’t ask for this role. You were simply born into it.

From this day forward, you will make sacrifices. You will leave movies early. You will feel the heat of people’s stares upon your back.

There is no Most Valuable Plater award for any of this.

There is no blue ribbon for those who will help care for a brother or a sister once their parents are gone.

There is no trophy for understanding that a life lived differently is not a life less lived.

Brotherhood is not a victory march. It is a slow walk down the aisle of Target, trying to decide what your older brother might like for his birthday.

Eighteen years from now, I will sit at my desk and order your cap and gown. And my mind will become a slideshow in reverse.

The time the basement flooded, and you spent the entire day at your father’s side, emptying buckets of water.

Your face as you helped carry your grandmother’s casket into church.

Your small silhouette in the sunlight, running toward me at the park.

Always, I land back here. In this dimly lit room with the softly buzzing machines.

I adjust your blue cap. I wrap you tighter in the hospital-issued blanket. 

The nurse comes in. She peers into your little face. You yawn. She asks your name.

“Charlie,” I say. 

“His name is Charlie.” 

There is no award for what you do.

For who you are.

You always gave enough.

Never let anyone tell you otherwise.