Page 99 of To Catch a Firefly

The look she gives me reminds me of my own mother. “It’s more than fine, Lucky. Like I told you before, you’re family, and I’m happy to have you here. If anything, I would think it might be difficult for you and Ellis to share the space with me.”

I frown. “You know Ellis adores you. He wants to be here, and you’ve always been like a second mother to me—”

“Precisely,” she says, cutting me off. “And I imagine sharing a house with a parental figure when you’re an adult in a relationship might have its challenges.”

“Oh,” I mutter, cheeks flushing hot.

“Oh,” she repeats, laughing.

I have a feeling the frequent trips Ellis and I have been taking to the silo haven’t gone as unnoticed as we thought.

“I’ll just put this out there, Lucky,” Mrs. Cole says. “I would be fine living on my own. I know Ellis doesn’t want to hear that. He has it in his head he has to take care of me. But I’m still capable of handling essentials without assistance, and I suspect I will be for some time. So if you want to nudge Ellis in the direction of moving out, I wouldn’t take that personally, and, in fact, I’d encourage it. Not because I don’t want you both here. And not because I wouldn’t miss you. But because the two of you should feel comfortable living in your own home withouthaving to tiptoe around. You could always visit. Daily, even, if you wanted.”

I swallow, nodding. “Thank you, Mrs. Cole. I’ll keep that in mind.”

She looks satisfied at that. “Now, did Ellis tell you about his dad?”

I blow out a slow breath. “Yeah, he did, but not until after…”

“After whatever it was that got him all in a tizzy when you showed up?”

I huff a rueful laugh. “Yeah, that.”

She nods, looking lost in thought for a moment. When her eyes meet mine, they’re clear and bright. “My son is neurodivergent. You know this.”

Her serious tone has me sitting straighter in my seat. “Yes. I do.”

“He didn’t speak until he was three years old,” she tells me. “The doctors diagnosed him as autistic early on, but it wasn’t until later that they expressed concerns over his selective mutism and ongoing language delays. We started bringing him to a speech pathologist when it was clear his verbal communication wasn’t developing at a pace they were happy with. But you know our town. We don’t have many resources here.”

I nod, and she goes on.

“The speech pathologist’s office was an hour away, so twice a week, every week, I would load Ellis up and bring him to his appointments. And then twice a week, every week, I’d spend an hour driving us home, wondering why my son was even quieter than normal. More withdrawn. It took me longer than I’d like to admit to realize what my son had picked up on right away from those appointments. The implication that he needed to be fixed. That something was wrong with him.”

My gut twinges, and Mrs. Cole sighs, her gaze on mine.

“Can you imagine knowing the world viewed you as broken at five, six, seven years old? Because Ellis did. And I was reinforcing that notion by pushing him so hard to benormal. God, how I hate that word.” She shakes her head. “Don’t get me wrong—I’m not blaming the doctors. Every child and what they need is different. But that was the point at which I said enough. I apologized to my son, asked him whathewanted, and every day from that point on, I made sure he knew he didn’t have to be anyone but who he was.”

I swallow, my throat tight. I’m not sure why Mrs. Cole is telling me this, but I commit her words to memory, glad to have the insight into this piece of Ellis’s past. Although Ellis told me he was on the spectrum shortly after we met, he’s never talked much about his early childhood. I’ve seen the way he’s treated, of course. People who look at him strangely or talk to him differently. Kids at school who made fun of him or wrote mean things in the bathroom. It never bothered Ellis—it rolled right off his back, still does—but I couldn’t stand it. Didn’t they see how special he was?Is?

“Now, Ellis’s teachers weren’t happy with my decision,” Mrs. Cole goes on. “They felt Ellis should continue his speech therapy. But when I asked if there were issues with his grades, if he had problems with his classmates, or if he couldn’t communicate his needs, they answered no every single time, and, eventually, their complaints grew quiet. What I’m getting at is my son isn’t broken.” Her voice is firm. “He doesn’t need to be fixed. He’s bright and kind and good. He’s smart and creative. He’s unfailingly loyal. And he’s happy with who he is, which is maybe most important of all. Many people hear the word autistic, and they think of easily recognizable traits. They think of tics. Outbursts. They think of obsessions with trains. They don’t see the shy kid who’s fascinated with color and glass. They don’t think of the girl with few friends who shows strong leadershipskills. But the autism spectrum is as vast and varied as those glass jars Ellis collects. No two situations are the same, and at the end of the day, ASD or not, Ellis is his own person. He’s his own unique person just like everybody else. He’s notbroken. He doesn’t need to be fixed. None of us are perfect, but I love my son just as he is. And you do, too. Don’t you?”

I nod sharply, pulling in a breath. “Yes,” I croak.

She smiles, sitting forward in her seat. “Then that’s all that matters. But I will say this, Lucky, even though you’re not asking for my advice. My son spends a lot of his life inside his own head. I’m sure you know this.”

I nod again. “I do.”

“He doesn’t always pick up on social cues the way a neurotypical person would. So don’t assume, when it comes to your relationship, that he understands things the same way you do or comes to the same conclusions. You’re going to need to be clear with him. Direct.”

“Yeah,” I say, dislodging the lump in my throat. “I’m getting that.”

“Good,” she says, sitting back. “Just don’t take it personally if you two have a hiccup like you did last night. I’ve never seen him love anyone or anything more than he loves you. Trust in that. He won’t ever try to hurt you. It’s not in his nature.”

I blink quickly and look away, needing a moment to center myself. My coffee sits untouched in my hands, and I set it down on the coffee table as soft holiday music continues to play from the kitchen. When I feel like I can finally speak again, I ask, “Have you always known? That he loved me?”

Her smile is soft. Kind. “Yes. But neither of you were ready for it, I don’t think. Until now.”

I wonder if she’s right.

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