The smell of grilled chicken wafted through the garden, mingling with the laughter of a late-summer family barbecue. Everyone had come in their most polished version of « casual, » pretending that everyone was getting along perfectly. My son, Alex, sat next to me at the picnic table, silently eating his hamburger.
Alex was fifteen years old. He was on the autism spectrum and had always struggled with social situations. But he was brilliant at computers, exceptionally kind, and possessed an integrity that many adults would envy.
« So, Alex, » my sister Amanda said loudly enough for the whole table to hear, « how’s it going at school? Still in those specialized classes? »
Alex nodded without looking up from his plate.
— It’s fine. I like my programming course.
« Programming? » Amanda replied in that condescending tone she mastered perfectly. « That’s good. Very practical. At least you’ll always have something to keep you busy. »
Her husband, Greg, chuckled softly. Their three children, seated at the other end of the table in their designer clothes, were engrossed in their phones. Perfect grades, impeccable extracurricular activities, a bright future in college. Amanda never missed an opportunity to remind them of this.
— Actually, I interjected, Alex just won a regional coding competition. He beat more than two hundred other students.
Amanda smiled, but her gaze remained cold.
— Oh, that’s cute. Participation trophies are so important for kids like him. It helps build confidence.
« It wasn’t a participation trophy, » I replied calmly. « He came in first. »
« Yes, well… in his category, » she said, waving her hand. « But let’s be realistic. Your son will always need help. Extra support, special accommodations. That’s just the way it is. »
Silence fell over the table. My mother suddenly focused intently on the chicken on the grill. My brother and his wife found their potato salad exciting. Amanda’s children glanced up briefly, then went back to their screens.
Alex’s hands went still. His hamburger remained half-eaten. I saw his jaw tighten, that little sign he had when he was fighting back tears.
“I’m saying this honestly,” Amanda continued, encouraged by the silence. “We can’t all be exceptional. Some children need more help than others. It’s nobody’s fault, but we have to have realistic expectations for the future. Don’t you agree, Greg?”
Greg nodded earnestly.
— Amanda is just trying to help. She volunteers at the school, she sees lots of different children.
« Exactly, » she continued. « I see it all the time. Children who will always need support, who will probably never live independently, who will always depend on their family. And that’s perfectly fine. That’s also what family is about. »
She laughed then, that small, crystalline laugh she used to make cruelty look lighthearted. A few embarrassed laughs answered her.
I looked at my son. His face was red, his eyes fixed on his plate. Fifteen years of underestimation, of assumptions about his abilities, of looks that diminished him. And now his aunt, in front of the whole family, was dismissing his future with a wave of her hand.
« Perhaps you’re right, » I said softly, putting down my fork. « Perhaps I wasn’t realistic enough. »
Amanda nodded, satisfied.
— I’m glad you’re open to this. It’s tough, but it’s better to face reality now than to be disappointed later.
« Excuse me for a moment? » I said, getting up. « I have a call to make. »
I went back inside, leaving my phone on the table. I didn’t need to call anyone. I needed to breathe, to avoid saying something I’d regret, and to think about what I was going to do.
Through the kitchen window, I could see the garden. Amanda was now the center of attention, no doubt developing her own approach to education. My mother looked unhappy but said nothing. Alex had gotten up and was sitting alone on the front steps.
I took my computer out of my bag, opened my email, and started writing.
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