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“She’s autistic,” I thought I physically felt my ears perk up, and I momentarily forgot about my conversation with Marco while I tuned into the conversation around me, “Also nonverbal. So she’s in a specialized preschool classroom for neurodivergent kids. Thankfully, the school district provides her with additional resources like OT, PT, Speech therapy, etc.”

“What’s speech therapy for, if she’s nonverbal?” Mary asked around a mouthful of food.

“Her AAC device,” Violet explained, “It’s like an iPad that vocalizes for her. That way she can still advocate for herself. Her teachers also sign and sound words out, in case she does end up speaking one day.”

“Is there a pretty high chance of that?” Signe asked.

I was fascinated by watching Violet talk about her daughter’s special needs like this. So casually, as if it was all no big deal. It was obvious Violet loved her daughter and enjoyed talking about her with us. I couldn’t imagine having a child; it wasn’t something I ever planned for myself.

Violet had a deep maternal side, evidenced by the positive way she spoke about her daughter’s special needs and educated us about them.

“We really can’t know for sure,” Violet drummed her fingers on the table, “She used to say ‘mama’, but has since regressed—which is very common for autistic kids. I have spoken to parents who say that one day their five- or six-year-old randomly started speaking in full sentences, and I’ve also spoken to parents whose kids never vocalize without AAC. So, it could go either way.”

“Wow,” Signe sighed wistfully, resting an elbow on the table to support her cheek, “I can see why you’d prioritize meeting her needs over having consistent therapy for yourself.”

“Yeah,” Violet grinned, glancing down at her phone resting on the table. Screen up. She lifted it to show us all her lock screen, “She’s worth it, though.” The image was of her daughter. She had blonde hair held back in two braids, sporting a wide cheeky grin. Her daughter was laughing, her big green eyes shining brightly.

I had no idea what autistic children looked like. I had little to no understanding of how children were supposed to look or behave. However, looking at this picture taken in the middle of her daughter’s laughter, I wouldn’t have guessed that this little girl had challenges at all.

“She’s beautiful,” I spoke, my own phone clutched tightly in my hands.

I wondered if Violet and I could speak privately at another time, where I could pick her brain about her daughter. When did she first see the signs of autism start to present themselves? How has that affected her daughter’s development? What will her life as an adult look like? …Would her daughter and I have things in common?

A diagnosis won’t wait to present itself until a doctor has deemed it to do so, Mariam’s words echoed in my head,Seeking out a diagnosis is a personal choice,don’t gaslight yourself just because a doctor hasn’t confirmed or denied one yet.

I wasn’t sure if I was neurodivergent or not.

I didn’t want to jump the gun.

What if I just hyper-fixated on learning about autism and convinced myself I was when I wasn’t? What if I was inappropriately claiming a label for myself that belonged to others? Would someone like me, someone high functioning and able to act as expected (for the most part), invalidate someone like Violet’s daughter’s diagnosis?

I shook my head, focusing back on my conversation with Marco.

Me: Still weird as hell, especially since he had to drive me to work recently.

Marco: Oh, hot.

Me: No, not hot.

Me: Well.

Me: Maybe a little hot.

Marco: REALLY?? Tell me everything.

I sighed, getting ready for the onslaught of messages I was about to receive from him when I replied.

Me: …He rides a motorcycle.

Marco: JACQUELINE MARIE WILLIAMS

Marco: YOU RODE ON A MOTORCYCLE WITH HIM??

Marco: How does this guy keep getting hotter and hotter?

I bit my lip to stifle a giggle, ignoring Mary’s curious glance in my direction.

Me: He’s just a guy.