The appointment is over. The pediatrician has said the words—autism spectrum—and in the same breath, offered what sounds like hope. Early intervention is critical, she says. The research is clear. There are programs, therapies, supports. She gives you a number to call.
You call the number. You are placed on a list. You are not told how long the list is, or where you stand on it, or what will happen while you wait. You ask these questions. No one has answers. You are told to be patient.
The months pass. Your child's second birthday comes and goes. Then the third. You watch other children at the park—children who arrived later, developmentally—begin to talk, to play together, to do the things the books promised might happen for your child too, with the right support, at the right time. You wonder, sometimes, late at night, what might have been different.
The people who designed this system have never sat where you sit. They have not held a phone for forty-five minutes listening to hold music, nor explained to a teacher why their child struggles with transitions, nor calculated whether speech therapy or groceries comes first this month.
But you have. And here is the thing they do not tell you: your story—the particular truth of what this wait has cost your particular family—is the kind of evidence that changes things. Not eventually. Now.