“‘No, no, don’t sit next to him darling, move away.’
That sentence is the one that never leaves me. It always cuts like a knife, shattering my heart into a million tiny pieces no matter how much time has passed.
We were simply waiting to go in to see Santa, standing in his grotto. I will never forget that room. It was magical—snowmen everywhere, soft twinkling lights, Christmas music filling the air. It was sensory heaven for my little boy, a place that felt warm and joyful and safe.
At the time, we were right in the middle of his assessments. Riley was being assessed for autism. In my heart, I already knew. I had accepted it. I was okay with it. And just like any other child, he was there for one simple reason—to see Santa.
That day, Riley was bursting with excitement. It wasn’t because he understood who Santa was; it was because he adored lights. And there were so many. His face lit up with every tree we passed, every reindeer we saw. Everything glowed, and so did he. He was absolutely in his element.
When my little boy gets excited, he flaps his hands. He jumps, hums, squeals. He doesn’t speak, but he communicates his joy in his own way—Riley’s way.
I’ll never forget watching him in that room. He was so genuinely happy. In my mind, we were just like any other family, soaking in a special Christmas moment together.
But the more he flapped, the more people stared.
The more he squealed, the more heads turned.
The more he paced, the more whispers floated through the room.
All of it aimed at my beautiful two-year-old boy who simply couldn’t contain his happiness.
Everything felt raw back then. Yes, I knew he was autistic, even if it wasn’t officially written down yet. That didn’t make it easier. It hurt deeply. But I held myself together for him, because someone had to be strong.
I will never forget that woman. The way she looked at my son. The long stare. The unmistakable look of disgust.
When we moved into Santa’s waiting room, Riley spotted a bench and happily climbed up. His hands still flapping, his humming continuing, his joy unchanged. I sat beside him, chatting softly, pointing out snowmen and reindeer to keep him engaged.
A little girl wandered over and sat next to him. She smiled, curious, and said hello. At that stage, Riley never acknowledged other children, so I replied for him. But then he turned toward her and smiled—the biggest, brightest smile I had ever seen. He had noticed her. His hands flapped faster, his squeal louder. It was his way of answering her, and my heart nearly burst with pride.
Then I felt it—the eyes on us. The little girl’s mother was approaching.
“No, no, don’t sit next to him darling, move away,” she said, pulling her child away.
As she walked off, she glanced at me and added, “Maybe you should try those special Santas, you know, for kids like him.”
The little girl turned back and waved goodbye. She smiled and said it softly.
And in that moment, my heart shattered.
In that moment, that woman ruined every part of our day.
I had to take a breath just to stop myself from breaking down—not because of what she said, but because I knew my little boy was exactly where he belonged. He was going to see Santa. And he was happy.
What broke me most was knowing she was teaching her child that kids like mine are something to avoid. That autism is something bad. Something to fear.
What she didn’t see was that my little boy is just like her daughter. He cries when he falls. He loves his mum. He laughs when I tickle him. He loves to dance. He has a heart overflowing with love. He may be different, but he is never less.
We always say parents teach their children—but that day, the teacher was the little girl. She saw no difference. She saw a friend.
She could have taught her mother about acceptance, about love, about understanding. She showed that different is not less, and that everyone deserves a place in this world.
Even four years later, that moment remains one of the hardest I’ve faced as a mother.
Disability comes with judgment. With stares, comments, and quiet cruelty. It comes with hard days. You learn to grow thicker skin, to block it out, to focus on what truly matters.
If I had one wish, it would be that no other parent ever feels the way I did that day. That no mother’s heart would break because of ignorance.
Autism may make my little boy different—but who decided different was bad? Because I think it’s pretty amazing.
And I know that little girl did too.
