The Perfect Life

Lately, I’ve been reminiscing…

Partly missing my kids being little, and partly thinking back on what life was really like raising Dylan.

April is Autism Awareness and Acceptance Month.

But for families like ours, it isn’t just April.

It’s every minute, every hour, every single day.

No one understands it like the families living it.

I find myself telling stories to people who aren’t affected—people blessed with “typical” children.

They listen. They try to show empathy.

But there’s always something underneath it… almost like fear.

Like if they listen too closely, or get too close, it might somehow “rub off.”

They can’t fully comprehend it.

Maybe they think I’m exaggerating.

Maybe they’re just in shock.

The other day, I was telling a story about what led us to permanently lock our windows in our previous home.

Let’s go back for a minute…

When Kevin and I got married at 26, we started in a small duplex. I loved it. It was the first time I had my own place.

But as usual, I had a bigger vision.

I talked Kevin into buying our first house—a cute split-level on a quiet street in Canfield.

We spent weekends doing projects, and we brought our sweet Dylan home from the hospital to that house.

I can still picture Kevin videoing that day… showing his brand new son around, so proud.

Two new parents, both turning 30, with absolutely no idea what life had in store.

Then one day, the “perfect” house went up for sale.

Cul-de-sac. Beautiful curb appeal. Everything I dreamed of.

I called a realtor before I even told Kevin. Dylan wasn’t even one yet.

And just like always… I painted the picture to Kevin hoping to get what I wanted.

4 Bedrooms we’d fill with more kids.

A backyard where Dylan would learn to play baseball.

Neighbors who would surely become lifelong friends.

We moved in just in time for Dylan’s first birthday.

Then came the white vinyl picket fence.

Perfect, right? Safe. Secure. A place for kids to play.

We built a deck. A patio. Planted trees.

I remember one summer night, planting a tree in the backyard with Kevin while Dylan slept inside.

I had white rocking chairs on the front porch—my dad picked them up for me.

There was always a wreath on the door.

And May was my favorite… flower shopping with my mom, filling the house with hanging baskets and pots overflowing with color.

Then Anderson came along, and we brought her home to that same house—our “perfect” house—right as we finished Kevin’s dream basement.

A bar. The best TV. The perfect setup.

We had it all.

A boy. A girl.

The American dream… complete with the white picket fence.

A fence Dylan would eventually learn to kick the slats out of…

so he could squeeze through before I could even get the gate open—

running through the neighborhood, sometimes into neighbors’ homes… sometimes getting naked along the way.

I will never forget the day I walked upstairs the steps of that perfect house and saw my little boy—probably not even 5 yet—halfway out of a second-floor window.

He had already escaped more times than I could count.

One morning, he climbed out the dining room window onto the porch while I was at an early workout and Kevin was getting ready for work.

A neighbor found him wandering down the street in his pajamas and brought him home.

After too many close calls, I called a contractor friend.

And we nailed every window shut.

In our perfect home.

We installed locks on the doors—locks that required a key from the inside.

Keys we had to hide… because Dylan was brilliant. He would have figured it out.

And I know what some of you might be thinking…

Why couldn’t they control their child?

How could they not keep him safe?

You wouldn’t be the first.

Years later, I found out neighbors—people I thought were friends—were saying those exact things.

That we kept our son locked in the house.

But here’s the truth:

As parents, we do whatever we have to do to keep our children safe.

Whatever it takes.

Today, Dylan is 25.

He lives in his own home with 24/7 care.

His doors aren’t locked—because they can’t be.

But he still runs when he’s having a bad day.

And I still lie awake at night thinking about worst-case scenarios.

Not that long ago, I was leaving his house, and he stood in his bedroom window watching me go…

with a brand new caregiver inside- would he open the window, would he run outside

I drove away—and carried that fear with me all night.

Back to my quiet, peaceful condo.

The one I moved into after we sold our “perfect” home.

Kevin doesn’t miss that house.

But I do.

Seventeen years of memories.

The hardest years of my life… but also the ones that shaped me.

That house held our story.

Every wall, every room… it all happened there. All my holiday gatherings, all the birthday parties, all the chaos...

My parents are gone now.

My kids are grown.

The nights are quiet. Mostly peaceful.

Dylan is cared for.

And Anderson—the quiet survivor in all of this-is finishing college and she lives in her own house.

I know a house is just a house.

And April is just a month.

But autism isn’t.

It’s a daily fight.

A life no one asks for.

But if you’ve ever met an autism parent…

you’ve met a survivor.

Because whether it means locking themselves inside…

or doing whatever it takes…

They will survive.

Thank you, 155 Willowbend Drive,

for taking me back.

I would move right back in…

and lock those doors and lock ourselves in all over again

just to have a few of those days back.