I cough to cover my emotion, a little choked up by the gesture. “I didn’t think you liked art.”
“I likedthat, and besides, my daughter painted it,” she replies, her lips twitching into an almost-smile as she hands me a small plate of cucumber sandwiches. I wonder if she remembers the day as well as I do.
“Thank you.” I don’t know if I’m thanking her for the compliment or the sandwiches, but at this moment, I don’t think it’s important. She’s never shown much interest in my art before, and I’m taken aback that she even wanted it in the first place.
“So, Dad told me—"
She cuts me off mid-sentence. “Napkin.” She holds out the napkin, and I lay it over my lap. Her facial expression remains stoic. “About my diagnosis?”
“Yeah, it explained a lot.”
“I was meaning to tell you, I just kept putting it off.” She places her plate back down and fiddles with her napkin as she continues. “I’ve always struggled with anxiety and depression. I hid it well, but your father has always known.”
I nibble on the sandwich, contemplating my words before I speak.
“You have questions?”
I nod and swallow. “Yes.”
“I’m listening.”
“I found some articles on the internet, and I wondered how you’ve always acted in a socially neurological way, for the most part?”
She fidgets. “I was always quiet growing up and knew from watching other people I was different. But I didn’t want to be, so I learned how to act more sociably. It doesn’t come without effort, and it can be exhausting. It’s also known as camouflaging, or so I’m told.”
“How did the diagnosis come about?”
“Your father and I were having issues—my anxiety and depression was spiralling—and he threatened to leave me if I didn’t go to the doctor. I was referred to several different specialists, and that’s when I was diagnosed.”
“I’m so sorry, Mum.” And I mean it.
“You have nothing to apologise for.” She reaches for my hand, the gesture unfamiliar. “I’m aware of how hard I’ve always been on you, and for that, I’m the one who is sorry. I never wanted you to turn out like me.”
I shake my head. She makes it sound like she’s a bad person. “You never left me starving. I never went without…”
“But you needed a mum—one more like my mother and the kind of mum you are to Molly. And I’m sorry I couldn’t be the mum you deserved.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I say. She can’t be held accountable for something which is out of her control any more than I can. “What happens now?”
“I’m learning to share my experiences with other women. The group meetings help, and your father has been very understanding.”
We talk for another hour, and it’s only when I need to go that I realise I’ve never spoken to her for this length of time, not ever.
She stands up, straightening her loose-fitting trousers. “You’ll come again soon and bring Molly-Mae?”
“Yes, of course. Dinner next Thursday,” I reply as she walks me to the door.
“Yes, or sooner if you’d like—just call us to let me prepare.” I’m shocked when she pulls me in for a hug. Just as quickly, she lets go, but I can’t hide the urge to cry.
“Bye,” I choke out and rush from the house towards Betty.
Inside the confines of my car, I let the tears fall, wondering how many people go undiagnosed every day. My dad always told me she judged herself harshly, but I couldn’t understand why she always seemed so well put together. To think, those social situations took considerable effort on her part… It makes me admire her in a way I never have before.
I want to make a point of learning more about Adult Autism. Perhaps we can do something to help raise awareness. Perhaps it’s this diagnosis that will finally bring us together as a family.
Chapter Forty-Seven
RACHEL
