I met a guy today.
Cute guy. Mid-20’s. Black. Sharply dressed like he still believes in trying… in a supermarket.
I clocked him from afar, hovering near the gluten-free aisle like it might judge him. I murmured to Max as we passed, “Don’t let me forget your flapjacks.”
Ten minutes later in gluten free heaven, Max and I suddenly find ourselves caught in a Bermuda Triangle between the bread, breakfast cereal and spaghetti, cornered by cute guy.
He looks at me the way people look when they’re about to confess something.
“Excuse me” he says nervously, like he’s about to instigate something highly illegal. “This is my first time” he glances around, lowering his voice, “with this gluten-free stuff. Does it work?”
He gestures at Max. “I’m guessing...you’re buying it for her?”
Max halts mid-fidget, the rhythm of his clicking fingers broke, and delivers a hard stare. I remind myself again… book the haircut.
I raise an eyebrow, somewhere between amused and aghast at the presumption, but I already know what’s coming.
“Well,” I begin “that depends.”
The man leans closer. “I mean,” he says, and this time the words come in a whisper heard in churches and art galleries, “like, umm… autism?”
“Ah yes” I reply brightly.. “diet helps enormously.”
I glance at Max , “he is a boy, and he is autistic.”
He blinks and takes a half-step back. “Wow! but he doesn’t look autistic.”
And then, catching himself. “Sorry about the girl thing, it’s the hair.”
He exhales, and suddenly his story pours out.
His daughter. Two years old. He tells me her entire life history in five minutes flat. Every worry. Every milestone missed. Every inch of space between what is and what he imagined.
Like any good therapist, albeit unqualified and unpaid, I listen.
He asks about Max.
When did I know?
How bad does it get?
Does he seem… normal now?
I forgive him the beginner’s faux pas of thinking autism has a “look”. It doesn’t. He’s not being cruel, just new. New to this planet.
And I remember being him. On the precipice of this unfamiliar world, wondering how you got here, gathering clues anywhere you could scavenge hope.
Soon, he’ll cross over. He’ll wake up one day and realise he’s living in a world he didn’t plan for, one that demands courage he didn’t know he had. The before will feel like a dream.
I tell him what I can. That diet might help. That testing is worth it.
That he’s doing the right thing by asking questions. He’s not flailing; he’s learning, that’s already something strong. He nods, then straightens.
We say our goodbyes and he heads down another aisle, his shoulders set, a man with a mission.
Twenty minutes later, Max and I are at the self-checkout, scanning, bagging, serenaded by the soundtrack of tired whining toddlers and barcode scanners.
“Hey!”
I look up. It’s him again. Cute guy.
He’s beaming, waving a loaf of bread above his head like a trophy armed with what looks like gluten free everything in his trolley.
I raise my hand.
“Good luck!” I call out. And then, he’s gone.
Autism came into our lives like a war we didn’t ask for and some days, the loneliness of it hums under everything. A quiet devastation.
But not today.
Today, in Aisle No. 6, I climbed out of the trenches and passed a note to a stranger on his way in.
We all carry battles others can’t see. But we also carry wisdom we didn’t ask for, and maybe, just maybe, we carry it so we can give it away. He’s going to be OK.
Not because the path will be easy, but because he knows enough to ask, to listen and to try. Knowledge is power, life does go on, and that is everything.
This is indeed profound yet so accessible; you instantly relate to it. I hope things are working out for him.
We loved this. The summary is profound. Thank you so much for sharing .