Our father had left when Theo was still a baby, so after our mother’s death, it was just the two of us.
I was barely old enough to understand what it meant to become responsible for another human being. I had a part-time job, a nearly empty bank account, and a younger brother who had lost the only parent he had ever really known.
The social worker who visited us was kind, but she asked questions that made my stomach tighten.
Did I have somewhere to live?
Could I support Theo?
Was I prepared to become his primary caregiver?
I answered as confidently as I could.
“Yes.”
I had no idea what I was doing.
But I knew one thing.
I wasn’t going to let my brother grow up believing he was unwanted.
Theo had been diagnosed with autism when he was three.
He was an extraordinary boy, although I hated the way people sometimes used that word as though they were describing something strange or unusual.
