I used to work as a restaurant manager. I would have to work a lot of hours, normally split shifts, 4 or 5 hours for lunch then back in the evening for another 5 or 6 hours. This meant that I was not able to spend as much time with my son as I would have liked. It also meant that his mother was his main carer. Sadly after the diagnosis of autism she became like a woman on a mission. One afternoon when I returned from work I found her trying to teach my son to speak, and she seemed convinced she could do it. She had bought a set of 'flash cards' with various words on them, and she was holding them up one at a time trying to get him to say the word. I think he attempted two. He did not seem upset by what she was doing but it certainly upset me. I have always felt, then and now, that one's home is one's sanctuary; somewhere to find peace and calm, somewhere to relax, somewhere without stress or pressure. He could get all the support for learning he needed outside and at home he could just play. That is what I thought and what I calmly explained to his mother. As she was having little success with her endeavours she immediately agreed and the flash cards went into the trash.

It was this incident that made me begin to worry. What was she doing with him while I was at work? What did she really feel about the fact that she had an autistic son? Albeit "high functioning", she added that after every time she told someone for the first time. It was pretty obvious that she was having great difficulty excepting the diagnosis, but worse than that she was not sharing her thoughts with me. In fact she was even trying to blame it on me. I became more convinced of this when she kept making excuses for not taking him to school. This was a very hard task as it involved a lot. First, getting him dressed without his compliance, then trying to make him look as if he had had some kind of wash before school. But he would scream the house down when faced with any attempt to wash him (baths were a complete nightmare, I am sure the neighbours were close to phoning the police on bath nights). Then when we did arrive at school it took at least another 15 to 20 minutes after the bell had rung before he would let me leave. He would cling on to me for dear life, but gradually his learning assistant and the school librarian would coax him away from me and I could leave. Mightily upset I have to add ...