anyone but you. That’s not healthy, Beth. It’s not good for Dylan’s social or intellectual development, and, as I’m sure you realize, it will become even more detrimental to his development as he matures.”
I am silent, because I know it’s true, but what am I supposed to do? And what is so important about peers, anyway? As for friends, I don’t have any, either, and I’m fine. I don’t say any of that, though, because I know it would somehow all count against me.
I also know that my life—Dylan’s life—isn’t normal. I’m not so far down the wretched rabbit hole of my reality that I don’t realize that, that I don’t think it every single day—while I’m crouching next to Dylan in the supermarket, praying he’ll get up off the floor. When I’m in the library, reading the same book to him, twenty times in a row while the librarian looks on, bemused. When I lie in bed at night, almost afraid to breathe, because I might wake him up.
Most people don’t live like this, and there’s a reason why. It’s hard. It’s lonely. Sometimes it’s boring, and when it’s not, it’s worse. But it works. What we have works. And I know Susan will never understand or accept that. There’s no point in me even trying to explain it, because if I can’t tick the boxes on whatever sheet she has, I’m a problem that has to be solved, and the only solution she sees is taking Dylan away from me. But she can’t. I can’t let her.
“Beth, I want you to try not to see me as the enemy,” Susan says gently. “I know it’s hard, but please, please try to understand that what I am recommending now is not just for Dylan’s benefit, but for yours. I want you to be the best mother you can be to Dylan, and I want the two of you to thrive as a family. I am getting involved in a more direct way to help you achieve those goals.”
I don’t reply, because I am trying not to cry, and the truth is, some desperate part of me wants to believe her. If someone can help me, really help me, give Dylan and me a chance at a more normal, integrated life, then I want that. Who wouldn’t?
Yet not like this. Never like this.
“Beth.” Susan reaches over and puts her hand on mine. It is warm and soft, like a grandmother’s hand, not that I’d even know. My grandparents died before I was born. But it’s a human touch and even though my instinct had been to pull away, I realize I appreciate it, especially as I suspect it’s against all those safeguarding rules. “Let me help you,” Susan says and I stare at her, my eyes swimming with tears, my boy’s head resting against my shoulder. He’s still asleep; he must have been really exhausted, or maybe this situation is so overwhelming for him that his body has simply turned off, shut down. I wrap my arms around him, savoring his warmth, the slightly salty boy smell that is so familiar to me. How on earth could I ever let him go?
“He’s never been without me,” I say, my voice wobbling all over the place. “How could living with strangers help him? He won’t be able to stand it.” Just saying the words out loud makes my stomach hollow out. Dylan can’t deal with strangers. He’s still terrified of our mailman, and he’s been coming to our apartment every day for four years. Dylan has never been a single day without me. He can’t start now. I won’t let them take him.
“You’d be surprised,” Susan says gently, “how children adjust.”
But Dylan won’t adjust. He never adjusts to anything, which is why our life is the way it is. He views just about everything as a threat or a danger. He’s scared of the slide, of hardback books, of broccoli and clothing tags. Each one, unless avoided or carefully managed, can send him spinning into a terrified tantrum.
But I know Susan won’t believe me if I try to make her understand, just as I know, with a sickening lurch of realization, I have no real choice in this matter, the most important one in my life. That’s been clear from the beginning of this conversation, no matter how Susan tries to couch it in language about supporting me. She’s already decided, and there is nothing I can do.