Diane’s expression softens. “Eli’s a wonderful kid,” she says. “But he isn’t getting the support he needs. Not here, and definitely not with those three isolated therapy sessions.”
It stings to hear her say that. Like I’ve somehow failed him. “You think he needs more therapy? About the fire?”
“I don’t think this is about the fire at all.”
Then Diane pulls out a questionnaire.
“Every year, we test the students we feel meet the criteria.” She slides the paper my way. “These are Eli’s results.”
“Test?” My hackles rise. “Test for what? Why wasn’t I informed?”
“Because it’s a harmless questionnaire,” Diane shrugs. “And because you would have said no.”
“All the more reason?—”
“Mia, don’t get me wrong. Almost no parent wants their kids tested for this.” She levels me with her gaze. “And almost every child suffers for it.”
That gives me pause. The thought of Eli suffering—it’s the one thing I can’t bear.
“What am I looking at?” I sigh.
“A preliminary test for neurodivergent traits,” Diane says. “Eli’s score suggests he’d benefit from an ASD assessment, as well as an ADHD evaluation.”
It takes a moment for all those letters to sink in. “You’re saying Eli’s… autistic?”
“I think there’s enough evidence to warrant digging deeper.”
My mind reels. “But… he’s verbal. He’s social, he interacts, he?—”
“—can still be on the spectrum,” Diane interjects. “Even with all of that.”
“So, his episodes…” I swallow hard. “You think they’re meltdowns, then?”
“I do.” Diane taps on a chart at the bottom of the page. “I also think he’s been regularly behind his developmental milestones, if only by a little.”
“B-but…” I shake my head. “Eli’s smart. Like,reallysmart. And—and kind, empathetic, curious. He loves spy movies, you know? He’s always tinkering with his building blocks to make gadgets. If he had ADHD, or if he was autistic, or both—wouldn’t I have noticed?”
Wouldn’t I have known my son needed more from me?
Shouldn’t I have seen?
Is all of this my fault?
Diane squeezes my hand. “I think you and Eli have been through a lot already. It’s not easy to pick up on these signals when you’re a working single mom. And I think—though it’s only my opinion—that Eli saw how thin you were spread. Like you said, he’s a smart kid.”
There are tears in my eyes now. Not because Eli might be autistic—I’ve always hated parents who turn their kids’ diagnoses into personal tragedies—but because, if what Diane’s saying is true,I’vebeen failing him.
“So he was masking?”
“It’s pretty early to call it that, but yes. In a way, he was. And when he wasn’t, it was easy to mistake the signs for long-term effects of his trauma.”
My voice is a broken, hopeless thing when it wobbles out of my throat. “So what do I do?”
“Honestly?” She fishes around her desk drawer. “If it were my kid, I’d do this.”
Then she hands me a pamphlet.
Rainbow Infinity Private School.
