Sometimes I refrain from talking to Wil’s twin sisters, Katherine and Elizabeth, about him. Both girls just completed their junior year of college. Wil is living at home, thriving, but always missing his sisters. They are deeply loving, patient, and caring with him, but also bring the perfect mix of sibling honesty. If he is acting out of turn or doing something annoying, they don’t shy away from telling him.
Wil is undeniably cute, outgoing, and affectionate, and many of his peers go out of their way to be kind to him. Around town, there is always a “Hey Wil,” a fist bump, a smile. I’m grateful for that, for both Wil and his peers. But often people also give him a very long rope of latitude.
One day in high school, Wil was sitting at a lunch table with friends and thought it would be funny to throw someone’s fork on the floor. The friend simply picked it up without saying a word. His sisters, on the other hand, would have immediately let him know that was not okay. As a result, he has never thrown one of their forks on the floor.
So much of our lives, as the kids grew up, revolved around Wil. Errands were planned around how long we thought he could manage before bolting from a store or sitting down, unmoving, on the floor. Katherine, Elizabeth, and I learned to prioritize which stops to make first and which ones we might have to abandon if Wil hit a wall. We calculated the best we could, but there was always a margin of error.
One day at Dick’s Sporting Goods, while we were buying Elizabeth basketball shoes, Wil reached his limit. He stood up and ran from the store. I caught up to him just before he reached the parking lot.
Another time, walking into the post office, he decided halfway across the parking lot that he was done. He plopped himself directly onto the pavement. We tried every bribe in the book. Katherine stood blocking traffic trying to exit the lot, while I negotiated with Wil. The only thing that finally worked was Elizabeth giving him a piggyback ride.
I have a thousand stories like this.
And so now, when I talk to my daughters on the phone to catch up on their lives, I sometimes hesitate before bringing up Wil. Should I or shouldn’t I? He is still such a large part of daily life at home, and so much of what happens here revolves around him. Sometimes I share those things, and sometimes I carefully choose how much space they take up in the conversation.
It isn’t avoidance. It’s that I want the conversation to be about Elizabeth. I want it to be about Katherine. I want room for their lives, their experiences, and who they are becoming outside the orbit of their brother’s needs.
Maybe that sounds harsh. Maybe it sounds cold. But I think many mothers of children with disabilities understand this quiet pull. So much of life becomes a series of conscious decisions, calculations, adjustments, and emotional triage. You are constantly trying to love everyone well while wishing, more than anything, for a crystal ball.