Why Mother's Day Is Hard When You're an Autism Parent (And What Actually Helps)

She woke up to a handmade card on the pillow. Purple crayon. Lopsided heart. Her name spelled mostly right, with a backwards "r" she already knew she'd keep forever. She held it with both hands and felt — what? Love, yes. Absolutely love. But also something heavier sitting right underneath it, quiet and familiar, the kind of thing you don't usually notice because the week is always too full to look down. Before 9am, her son had already dysregulated twice. Once over the texture of the pancakes her husband had made (a surprise, meant to help, which made the guilt of not appreciating it worse). Once because the morning routine had shifted by 20 minutes and his nervous system noticed even if nobody said anything out loud. She managed both. She always does. She sat at the kitchen table after, card still in her hand, and thought: I love this child so much it is almost a physical sensation. And I am so tired I can't remember what rested feels like. Both of those things were true at the same time. That's the part nobody writes about.