The sink is full of unwashed dishes. Catcat is Not Happy (I know, we’ve usually fed her by now). The bed’s a rumple of sheets and tossed-around quilts. Is the bathroom clean? Don’t look. Please.
Look here, instead. See? Here’s our boy, our sweet and precious little boy. For all his life, we’ve been searching the thickets surrounding his castle to find him, past the thorns of autism.
He has learned to write his name. There it is, on papers strewn across the table, in pen, in pencil, texta. Wonky. Wonderful. Bright in the morning light, more important than anything.