For ten years, my best friend took my autistic son out once a month, always telling me the same thing: they were going to a small diner because Leo loved the fries. I never questioned it. Then, on his eighteenth birthday, Leo insisted that our whole family celebrate at that exact diner. Before the night was over, a waitress pulled me aside and whispered, “You need to know what your son has really been doing here.”
The moment we stepped through the diner doors, three different people called my son’s name.
“Happy birthday, Leo!”
“Eighteen already!”
“Hey, birthday boy!”
