Keep Your Fork

Dear Addie,

I haven’t been very present lately in my writing of letters, and I want to acknowledge that. The past few weeks have been difficult, and I’ve needed some time to regroup and find our footing again.

Every few days, I find myself spiraling...angry, hopeless, deeply sad. It’s become part of our “new normal”, and I hate every second of it. But it’s hard not to fall into that place when you’re watching your child struggle in ways you can’t fix, explain, or protect them from.

There’s this question that keeps coming back, Why did this happen to you? How, of all people, did this land on your shoulders? I know there’s no real answer, no neat explanation that makes it hurt less, but the question lingers anyway. I know I’m not supposed to think this way. I know better. I know the answers people expect...why not us, life isn’t fair, this isn’t a punishment or a test. I understand all of that on an intellectual level.

But knowing something doesn’t stop the question from surfacing anyway.

Why you?

I remind myself that life isn’t about fairness, it’s more of a spectrum where sometimes we win, and sometimes we learn. I do believe that’s true. Still, some lessons arrive heavier than others, and some learning curves feel impossibly steep when they belong to your child.

And then there are the moments that feel almost surreal. Of all the items on the autism bingo card, having a preferred vomit bag was definitely not one I expected. It’s one of those details that’s simultaneously heartbreaking, absurd, and a dark humor kind of funny, the kind of thing you laugh at because the alternative is breaking down.

This is what loving a struggling child sometimes looks like, holding grief, anger, love, and humor all at once. It’s messy. It’s exhausting. And it’s real.

There’s a phrase that’s been playing over and over in my head lately... “keep your fork.”Now, before you start wondering if your mother has officially lost her mind, allow me to explain.

The phrase “keep your fork” comes from stories where, after the main course, someone is told not to put their fork away because a delicious dessert is surely coming. Something good. Something worth waiting for.

Over time this phrase has come to symbolize hope, a reminder to hold on, even when things feel heavy or uncertain, because what’s ahead may be sweeter than what’s behind.

Addie, we may never know the reason behind all of this, or how long it will last, but we remain hopeful. Our forks are ready, trusting that something sweet still awaits us.

I love you, baby girl.

Mom