Pride of a Parent

Tom looked over at his son Billy, beaming with pride.

He’d done it again. Completed yet another 48-piece puzzle at record speed, despite being only four years old. What else could he expect, though? Billy had always been exceptional.

His happy gurgles filled Tom with delight. He watched him twirl around the room, dancing to his own little beat.

Things had not always been as easy as they were in this particular moment. It had been a long, hard journey—tiring, challenging, but ultimately, deeply rewarding.

He wouldn’t change things, though, not for all the money in the world.

Because for every hard moment, there were a thousand more filled with magic.

Billy sang all the time. Random songs, made-up lyrics, off-key and full of joy.

He tried to share food with flies, believing they might be hungry too.

He licked the dog.

He pulled his tiny chair to the fridge, taking out ingredients whenever Tom cooked, ready to be his little sous-chef.

He refused to let anyone kill a Daddy Long Legs “fider” because—“They’re all brothers and sisters.”

He set up figurines in perfect lines down the hallway.

And sometimes?

Tom or his wife, Laura, would wake up, half-asleep, stumble to the kitchen...

And step right onto one.

The figurines had full control over the house.

Once, Billy had set up an elaborate lineup behind the front door. Then, their friends had arrived unexpectedly.

Instead of disturbing his careful display, Tom and Laura had to sneak out the back door, walk around the house, and let their guests in through the garden.

Billy didn’t even notice.

Every Monday and Tuesday, Billy went to preschool at Live Better, learning and laughing with his teachers—his little feet always trailing behind Roxy, Ajanta, and Jess like their shadow. Wednesdays and Thursdays were half-days at early intervention, helping him prepare for school next year. On Fridays, playgroup at ODEEP was a safe haven, filled with familiar faces who understood Billy's world—like Ros and Phillipa.

Through it all, Billy and his family had incredible support. His key worker, Stacey, was always there—guiding him, cheering him on, and simply being a consistent presence in their life.

Between preschool, early intervention, and a never-ending cycle of appointments, there was barely time to breathe.

On top of all this, Tom and Laura somehow found time for shopping, cooking, cleaning, and even sleeping occasionally... if they were lucky.

Everything ran on routines.

Social stories, reward charts filled with stickers, and visual schedules covered the walls and fridge. Red circles covered the calendar, filling every space with appointments. Every part of the day was planned.

Timers were their best friend.

“Five more minutes, buddy,” Tom would say, setting the timer.

Billy would nod, watching each segment disappear, mentally preparing himself for the next transition.

If they didn’t use the timer?

Meltdowns.

Not the kind people mistook for tantrums.

Not the kind that could be solved with a firm “No.”

Real, overwhelming distress.

But with structure, patience, and understanding, Billy thrived.

The supermarket was part of their usual Sunday routine.

Billy enjoyed the smell of fresh produce. He would point to each object, trying to say its name, asking Tom for help, laughing when he got it right.

Some days were harder than others.

But at least they had MyTime—a program run by ODEEP, a space where other parents understood, where they could talk, share, and just breathe for a moment. Some days, that was enough.

One afternoon, they were at the shops when Billy’s favourite snack was sold out.

He screamed uncontrollably, in complete sensory overload.

The lights. The sounds. The disappointment crashing over him all at once.

Tom knelt beside him, soft voice, skin-to-skin contact, gentle breathing exercises, counting. But none of it worked.

And the stares.

The stares made it worse.

Tom felt his heart rate rise and his cheeks turn red. He ignored everyone as best as he could, keeping calm and helping his son through it with everything he had.

He paid quickly and led Billy outside.

Then, a woman had stopped them, blocking their path, and called his son an animal.

Something inside Tom snapped.

“You should be ashamed,” he told her, voice shaking. “Can’t you tell this isn’t just a tantrum? Look at his hat!”

Billy’s Nanna had made it for him. A blue bucket hat with bold white letters:

AUTISM IS MY SUPERPOWER!

Another shopper stepped in.

“That’s disgusting. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

The woman apologised. But it didn’t matter.

Tom had held it together in the store. He had gotten Billy to the car.

But when he got home?

He placed his son inside, walked into his room, locked the door...

And broke down in tears.

The first time he had cried in twenty years.

Laura comforted him, holding him tightly, just as he had held Billy minutes before.

“Why do people have to be so cruel?” she whispered, her own tears dampening his shirt.

Tom had no answer. He just held her, feeling the weight of it all.

But there was no time to dwell. Life kept moving. Billy still needed them—the world didn’t pause for them and neither did his routine.

The very next day, Billy had a plan of his own.

They had just come home from a friend’s birthday party, Billy clutching a small plate of leftover cake.

As they parked, Tom unbuckled Billy, took the cake from his lap and started walking towards the house.

Instant meltdown.

Billy sobbed, screaming, reaching.

Tom quickly handed the cake back. “Okay, buddy, you carry it inside.”

But Billy wasn’t done.

He walked back to the car, opened every door, climbed into his seat, and insisted on being strapped in.

They all had to buckle up again and sit there for a minute before they could properly “arrive” at home.

Then, and only then, was Billy ready to carry the cake inside.

Everyone knew that being a parent meant sacrificing privacy.

With Billy?

It meant privacy didn’t exist.

Tom locked the bathroom door, ready for a rare moment alone.

Silence.

Then, the unmistakable sound of tiny hands fiddling with something outside.

Click.

The lock turned.

The door slowly creaked open.

Billy stood there, holding a LEGO piece proudly.

“Hi, Daddy.”

Tom stared, dumbfounded.

Billy walked in like nothing had happened.

Maybe he’d sit on the edge of the tub and start chatting about something completely unrelated.

“I think the fridge light stays on when you close it.”

Laura called from the other room,

“Did he open the door again?”

Tom sighed, amused.

“Yep. I'd be more worried if he didn't at this stage.”

Privacy was a myth.

Billy had changed their entire world.

Yes, there were challenges. But there was also endless wonder.

Tom saw so much of himself in Billy.

The uniqueness.

The quirks.

The way his brain worked.

Billy was brilliant, kind, and full of life.

And Tom wouldn’t trade a single part of him.

Because Billy?

Billy was perfect.