
Growing up in a family divided into two camps was very difficult for her.
My daughter Suzanne, our dear friend, Mary Anne
I’m a tax preparer. Some would say an apt profession for a person on the autism spectrum. Working alone, dealing with numbers and calculations, facts and figures. A skill that requires tremendous concentration and an ability to survey the financial landscape; see the complexities that lie within it.
My daughter, Sue, owns the firm. She has been keeping books and doing taxes since her late teens. Some of the customers have been loyal to her for more than thirty years.
She is a great boss. Firm but kind. She is not autistic. She has millions of friends (or so it seems) and is very social.
Growing up in a family divided into two camps (autistic and not), was very difficult for her.
For all of us. We each have our scars. My emotional immaturity did not help. I was very young when I birthed my three children. That’s the reality, not an excuse.

I was very young…
I ‘m wearing the dark shirt. My cousin is with me and my children.
As an aging autist, I look back on my early years, my children’s formative years, and I wince. However much I loved them, and I did love them unequivocally, I know my child rearing was not any where near ideal.
I didn’t know how to play, how to have fun, how to make sure they had the emotional and physical supports that they needed.
All I could do was love them in my own way. Certainly not nearly enough to give them a solid start in life.
And yet, today, all three children have their own homes, are gainfully employed, have friends and family close to them.
I am on good terms with all of my children. When we talk, it is with respect and love.
I speak with my employer/daughter every day, and the love she has for me comes through clearly, even if those conversations are mostly business.
We all survived. We are well. And I am so grateful, because I know I do not deserve this beautiful outcome.