Chapter 2: no choice
1502 Palabras
Feeling every ache in my body, the mechanic insisted on driving Ethan and me to the nearest hospital.
I wasn’t exactly in a position to argue.
Taking my phone, I spoke to my mom.
“I’ll call you when I get the chance. Ethan is going to need my phone, and I need to get him to the ER. Love you, Mommy.”
My mom didn’t miss a beat.
“You,” she said, addressing the man beside me through the video call. “Send me your phone number. Mirella will explain why later, but if I find out you hurt either my daughter or my grandchild, I’ll press every charge I legally can against you!”
She didn’t even give him a chance to answer before turning back to me.
“Ella, please let me know anything as soon as you can. I’ll be at work, but I’ll be paying attention to my phone.”
“I will.”
We blew each other kisses through the screen.
I even tried to get Ethan to send his grandma a virtual kiss, but he wasn’t having any of it. He kept pushing my phone away, desperately trying to end the call.
That alone told me how much pain he was in.
Normally, he never ignored Grandma.
Swallowing the knot in my throat, I ended the call myself.
Then I reopened one of Ethan’s favorite old videos and handed him the phone before carefully adjusting him in my lap as we got into the car.
Every small movement made him wince.
Every wince made me wish I could take his pain and make it my own.
The mechanic helps us settle in his tow truck that has seen better days.
Ethan sat on my lap in the passenger seat, my phone playing one of his favorite videos as I tried to calm him down. Every now and then he let out another cry, and every single one stabbed me right through the heart.
The mechanic drove in complete silence.
Not one word.
Not even small talk.
I couldn’t help but feel like I was being punished because he had hit my van.
Growing up, silence in a car always meant one thing.
Someone was angry.
Someone was disappointed.
Someone was about to explode.
Even during my marriage, silence usually meant trouble.
I hated silent car rides.
Clearing my throat, I opened my mouth to say something.
Anything.
“…So—”
The words died before they had a chance to leave my lips.
Parking the car, I noticed the one in front of us held a happy family. They had just gotten in with their newborn baby.
The old memories of when Ethan was born came rushing back. How happy his father had been to finally hold him in his arms. The joy we both shared, believing we had finally become the happy family we had always dreamed of.
Suddenly, the pain in my rib didn’t hurt anymore.
Those memories were enough to remind my body that reliving a lie was far more painful than any bruised rib cage could ever be.
The physical pain would eventually heal.
But the memories of believing I had a family… those were wounds that had never stopped hurting.
The mechanic finally cleared his throat.
I kept my eyes on the family outside the window.
Even if I’d never have a happy family again, at least I could pretend one still existed while watching someone else’s.
“This is my number,” the man beside me finally said. “My name is Erin. I know you’ve probably read my name tag already, but this isn’t even my jumper. One of my employees called off today, I forgot where I left mine so I borrowed his.”
I glanced over at him.
For someone who looked like he could throw a truck across the parking lot, he sure sounded awkward.
Looking down at Ethan, I carefully took my phone from his hands.
The moment I did, his fingers searched for it.
His breathing changed.
I knew exactly what was coming.
Before Ethan could begin a full meltdown, Erin suddenly pulled another phone from his pocket and held it out.
“I… uh… he can watch whatever he wants on this one.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable.
“It’s my personal phone. The number is the same one I just gave you.”
After a brief pause, he added in a much quieter voice,
“I’d rather not make your mother hate me any more than she already does.”
Despite everything, I smiled.
Taking both phones, I saved his number before handing his phone back.
Erin climbed out of the tow truck, leaving my phone with Ethan, who had settled down enough to continue watching his video.
Then Erin reached in to help Ethan.
That was his first mistake.
The second his arms wrapped around him, Ethan stiffened.
“No, wait—”
Too late.
Ethan reacted instinctively.
His elbow shot backward and landed directly against my bruised ribs.
Pain exploded through my side.
I doubled over with a groan.
At the exact same time, Ethan let out a frightened cry.
Erin immediately froze.
“I… I didn’t…”
He looked between Ethan and me like he’d just stepped on a landmine.
“I thought…”
I took a slow breath through the pain.
“Ethan doesn’t like strangers holding him.”
Erin’s shoulders dropped.
“I didn’t know.”
“I know.”
Ethan’s autism creates barriers that most people never have to think about.
Sometimes those barriers protect him.
Sometimes they make moments like this so much harder.
Every child on the spectrum is different.
They all have different needs, different triggers, and different ways of communicating.
That’s why I’ve never understood the people who proudly claim they “understand autism” while dismissing the parent who actually lives it every single day.
Understanding without listening is just another form of ignorance.
Carefully moving Ethan closer to me, I began hushing him, keeping my voice as calm and steady as I could.
“We need to get down. Mommy is in pain, and you need help too. We need to get down.”
I repeated the same sentence.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Seven times.
Just as it usually happened, on the seventh repetition Ethan finally began moving toward the edge of the tow truck, ready to climb down on his own.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Erin staring at us with a look of complete confusion.
He looked like his brain was trying to solve a puzzle nobody had ever given him the pieces to.
As much as I respect people who genuinely want to help, I struggle being around those who respond the way my ex-husband always did.
Standing there.
Watching.
Waiting.
Not asking.
Not adapting.
Just expecting Ethan to react the way every other child would.
Autism doesn’t work that way.
My son doesn’t work that way.
If you don’t understand something, ask.
If you don’t know what to do, ask.
I would rather answer the same question a hundred times than watch someone stand there assuming they know better.
Because when people refuse to adapt, I don’t end up taking care of just Ethan.
I end up taking care of two people.
One is my son.
The other is a grown adult who expects an eight-year-old to adapt to the world instead of the world meeting him halfway.
Once Ethan was standing on the ground, I spoke to him again in the same calm, hushed tone.
“Thank you, Ethan. Now let’s go inside.”
I repeated the exact same sentence.
Again.
And again.
By the seventh time, just like always, Ethan finally responded.
Apparently, so did Erin.
“You have to repeat the same sentence seven times in a hushed voice for him to understand?”
I nodded.
If I answered him right then, I would have had to repeat my response seven times too.
That was exactly why I tried to keep conversations with people to a minimum whenever Ethan was overwhelmed.
It wasn’t because I was rude.
It wasn’t because I didn’t like talking.
It was because every conversation became twice as long.
Every answer had to wait.
Every explanation had to be repeated.
Every word I spoke to someone else competed with the words Ethan needed from me.
People only see me repeating myself seven times.
They don’t see that I’ve been doing it for years.
They don’t see how mentally exhausting it becomes when your child needs consistency, but the rest of the world expects you to have endless energy.
Some days, by the time Ethan falls asleep, I don’t want to hear my own voice anymore.
Not because of him.
Because I’m tired.
And being tired doesn’t make me love my son any less.
It just reminds me that parents of children on the spectrum get exhausted too.
- Autor
