I’m 34, middle class white woman, jointly responsible for household income, musician by trade, convert Catholic, expecting my fourth child in August.

After several years of respectful consideration and encouragement from my therapist, I asked my husband if he was autistic. It’s not the kind of thing you bring up at the dinner table. He confirmed that he was diagnosed as a child and received behavioral therapy from early childhood into adulthood. Although he was open about aspects of this reality, this conversation was the first time he was fully transparent about his nature.

Later that fall, my son came home from disability awareness day at school with something to share at the dinner table. The honest severity of a seven year old: “did you know, there are some people in the world who are disabled? There are even people with something called autism…”

To which my husband replied blankly : “I’m autistic.”

What?

8 years into marriage, edging around this complicated reality… thousands of questions… years of convoluted heartache… seven times seventy forgiveness… boundless commitment… and: He identifies himself as autistic point blank.

That would have been nice to know.

I found a therapist for my son.