it too many times before, the comorbidity of autism and divorce.
She doesn’t remember if she answered him. She doesn’t remember most of whatever followed the word autism in that office on that day, but she’s thought about his question and her answer many times since. If she managed to voice a polite reply on that day, a day she thought for sure would be the absolute worst day of her life—only to be irrefutably unseated for all time a few short and long years later—she probably said something like Fine . And their marriage might’ve remained fine had they not been pressed and pulled and gutted in ways that two married people could never have imagined when they dressed up and said I do .
No, they most certainly weren’t fine after that day. But how could anyone be? That would be like throwing a glass vase against a brick wall and expecting it not to smash into a thousandbroken pieces, acting surprised and upset that it no longer holds water. The vase will always shatter. That’s what happens when glass hits brick. It’s not the vase’s fault.
When they were still dating after college, when they entered the “real world” and things got serious, Olivia questioned whether David was husband material. She made a mental list of necessary qualities and began checking off boxes: Handsome. Smart. Funny. Good provider. Handy around the house. Loves children. All checks. They married when she was twenty-four.
She never imagined the additional boxes she should’ve had on that list: Can function on little sleep for years. Willing to have his heart and will broken every day. Doesn’t mind dumping all the money he earns down a bottomless drain.
Like the state of Massachusetts says—it’s not his fault.
They agree on all the terms. She gets the cottage on Nantucket. He gets the house in Hingham. There’s no money. They already spent all of their savings on Anthony.
Applied-behavioral-analysis therapy, speech therapy, Floortime, sensory integration, metal chelation, gluten-free diets, casein-free diets, B 12 shots. Pediatricians, neurologists, gastroenterologists, occupational therapists, physical therapists, energy healers. From the mainstream to the alternative to the practically voodoo, Olivia doesn’t remember much of any of it being covered by their health insurance. David worked more and more hours. They refinanced the houses. They emptied their IRA nest eggs. Because how could they retire with money in the bank and a son with autism, knowing that there was a therapy out there that might’ve helped him but they didn’t try because it was too expensive?
They were about to sell the cottage.
Olivia remembers those late-night conversations in bed with the lights off, she on her side, David on his, hope and hopelessness living and breathing between them and every other word. She’d read or heard about some new treatment. It’s not FDA-approved for autism, and I agree, it sounds a bit cockamamy, but expert Dr. So-and-So said at this year’s conference it works on a subset of kids. It costs a fortune . What do you think? She remembers the sound of his exhale and then the silence, knowing he was nodding in the dark.
They tried it. They had to.
So there’s no money left, and half of nothing is nothing. There’s no alimony. And no child support, of course. That’s basically it. Clean and simple. They can set each other free.
But David hasn’t signed the agreement. Olivia knows he will. He just needs more time. And since time isn’t going anywhere, she doesn’t mind waiting.
She gets up and walks into the kitchen. She opens the cupboard and sighs. She forgot to buy more coffee.
If David were here, he’d say something like No problem, let’s go to The Bean . Before they had Anthony, they’d make a morning of it. They’d settle into a table, hopefully the one in the corner by the front window, he’d read the Globe, and she’d read a book for work, he’d have two large coffees, both black, and
She doesn’t remember if she answered him. She doesn’t remember most of whatever followed the word autism in that office on that day, but she’s thought about his question and her answer many times since. If she managed to voice a polite reply on that day, a day she thought for sure would be the absolute worst day of her life—only to be irrefutably unseated for all time a few short and long years later—she probably said something like Fine . And their marriage might’ve remained fine had they not been pressed and pulled and gutted in ways that two married people could never have imagined when they dressed up and said I do .
No, they most certainly weren’t fine after that day. But how could anyone be? That would be like throwing a glass vase against a brick wall and expecting it not to smash into a thousandbroken pieces, acting surprised and upset that it no longer holds water. The vase will always shatter. That’s what happens when glass hits brick. It’s not the vase’s fault.
When they were still dating after college, when they entered the “real world” and things got serious, Olivia questioned whether David was husband material. She made a mental list of necessary qualities and began checking off boxes: Handsome. Smart. Funny. Good provider. Handy around the house. Loves children. All checks. They married when she was twenty-four.
She never imagined the additional boxes she should’ve had on that list: Can function on little sleep for years. Willing to have his heart and will broken every day. Doesn’t mind dumping all the money he earns down a bottomless drain.
Like the state of Massachusetts says—it’s not his fault.
They agree on all the terms. She gets the cottage on Nantucket. He gets the house in Hingham. There’s no money. They already spent all of their savings on Anthony.
Applied-behavioral-analysis therapy, speech therapy, Floortime, sensory integration, metal chelation, gluten-free diets, casein-free diets, B 12 shots. Pediatricians, neurologists, gastroenterologists, occupational therapists, physical therapists, energy healers. From the mainstream to the alternative to the practically voodoo, Olivia doesn’t remember much of any of it being covered by their health insurance. David worked more and more hours. They refinanced the houses. They emptied their IRA nest eggs. Because how could they retire with money in the bank and a son with autism, knowing that there was a therapy out there that might’ve helped him but they didn’t try because it was too expensive?
They were about to sell the cottage.
Olivia remembers those late-night conversations in bed with the lights off, she on her side, David on his, hope and hopelessness living and breathing between them and every other word. She’d read or heard about some new treatment. It’s not FDA-approved for autism, and I agree, it sounds a bit cockamamy, but expert Dr. So-and-So said at this year’s conference it works on a subset of kids. It costs a fortune . What do you think? She remembers the sound of his exhale and then the silence, knowing he was nodding in the dark.
They tried it. They had to.
So there’s no money left, and half of nothing is nothing. There’s no alimony. And no child support, of course. That’s basically it. Clean and simple. They can set each other free.
But David hasn’t signed the agreement. Olivia knows he will. He just needs more time. And since time isn’t going anywhere, she doesn’t mind waiting.
She gets up and walks into the kitchen. She opens the cupboard and sighs. She forgot to buy more coffee.
If David were here, he’d say something like No problem, let’s go to The Bean . Before they had Anthony, they’d make a morning of it. They’d settle into a table, hopefully the one in the corner by the front window, he’d read the Globe, and she’d read a book for work, he’d have two large coffees, both black, and
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