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Seventeen Years Ago

My son, Jon, turns 19 years old this month. Seventeen years ago, I sat in a doctor’s office and listened to a kindhearted, brilliant man tell me my son had autism—an umbrella term with five major categories beneath it. All the while, Jon’s hand-flapping and toe-walking . . . and silence . . . and emotional distance . . . and . . . the doctor’s words kind of melted together.

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