To My Youngest, The Sibling of a Special Needs Child: Here’s What I Want You to Know

Hey there, my little superstar,

Happy 4th birthday, Max! Can you believe it? Watching you run and jump with your friends makes my heart swell with pride—I can hardly hold back the tears. You are truly remarkable, and I’m so grateful to be your mom.

There are a few things I need to share with you. I know you won’t fully grasp them right now, but one day, when I’m old and wrinkly, I hope you read this letter.

My Gratitude

First off, I can’t express how thankful I am that you are my son and your brother Jake’s sibling. Together, you both have filled my life with joy beyond what I ever thought possible.

Here’s a little secret that nobody knows: when I discovered I was pregnant with you, I cried—ugly, snotty tears. I was terrified. Your brother was only 2, and I felt like I was failing him as a mother. I couldn’t fix him; I was constantly running after doctors and therapies, but nothing seemed to work. My whole world felt like it was crumbling.

Autism was looming on the horizon—severe, nonverbal autism, the kind nobody wanted to talk about. Every day was filled with a gnawing dread, knowing my dream of a perfect family was slipping away. I felt like a ticking time bomb waiting for that diagnosis.

The Day You Arrived

But I kept a brave face. Then came that fateful Saturday morning when I found out you were on your way. I had been up all night with Jake, and your dad was at work when I took that test. It practically screamed, “You’re going to be a mom again!”

Honestly, I was petrified. I hadn’t slept in two years, and my life revolved completely around Jake. It still does to some extent. I remember nursing you in every waiting room in the city for your first year of life!

The next nine months were spent fretting over the “chances of having two kids with autism” instead of catching up on sleep. I was filled with anxiety.

Then came January, and you arrived. Oh my goodness, you were perfect! You slept, ate, laughed, and were just so content.

You saved me, Max. Not many kids can say that, but you truly did. By the time you were born, my life was completely absorbed by autism and my desperate attempts to help Jake. I was running on fumes, missing out on the beauty of motherhood. But you reminded me to cherish those moments with my babies.

The Light You Bring

On days when autism weighed me down, when the heartbreak of Jake’s challenges felt unbearable, you were my light. Watching you crawl, walk, jump, and talk brought me so much joy. You effortlessly connected with Jake in ways I couldn’t.

At the same time, it’s hard to watch you surpass your brother in so many ways. You are my little reminder of what Jake isn’t, and there are days when that thought crushes me. I feel guilty for almost downplaying your achievements because we were so focused on Jake’s struggles.

My Apologies

I want to apologize. You were brought into this world with a brother who has severe special needs, and I know that can be frustrating. There are times when it seems the only interaction you have with him is a kick to the face. Autism is a mystery to you, and I can see that confusion on your face.

I feel bad that you’re the most social kid I know, yet often come to me for attention because Jake doesn’t engage with you. I wish you didn’t even know the word “autism.” But then again, I appreciate that you know about hard times and differences. It’s almost a gift from Jake.

I fear I’ve missed so much of your life. Just the other day, during your check-up, I blanked on the year you were born. When the receptionist asked, I froze, looked at you, and burst into tears. How could I not remember that?

I think about the times I shushed your lovely chatter because I was exhausted from listening to Jake scream. What kind of mom does that? Yet, I know you understand. You just have to be quiet because your brother won’t.

The other day, during a visit from a social worker, you sweetly held my face and asked, “Can we talk about Jake for a bit, Mama?” I’ll never forget that moment. I promised we would, but then I got pulled back into Jake’s needs. I’m so sorry for that.

Thank You

Thank you, sweet boy. Our life is challenging, exhausting, and sometimes downright scary. You often get the leftovers of my attention after dealing with autism, and I’m sorry for that.

Some days, I worry I spoil you because I give in to your every whim just to make up for what you miss out on. I hold you a little longer, let you stay up late, and say “…because he’s autistic” way more times than I’d like.

I think about how you might care for Jake when I’m gone. Will you love him like I do? Will you help him with everyday things? I want you to have your own life, go to college, get married, and start a family, but part of me wishes you’d look out for your brother, too.

Celebrating You

One day, we’ll need to discuss the future, but for now, let’s celebrate you turning 4. Today isn’t about autism; it’s about you.

I want to teach you kindness, love, and patience. Disabilities aren’t something to fear. I want you to stand up for what’s right and fight for your brother. Most importantly, I wish for you to be happy and to love Jake, seeing all the joy he brings to our lives.

You both are brothers, and I hope you share that bond in every meaningful way.