Mother of a Neurodivergent Child 

ITwas in mid-November, when the sky was so laden, it looked like its belly would split any second. Indoors, my mind and nerves were on the verge of giving way. I was on the floor, trying to play with my little ones. But Yitzi kept hurling toys at his brother. When I assembled a tower of stacking blocks, he yanked my headscarf and scratched my face.

I decided to go out.

My phone rang just as I put the boys into the stroller. It was my mother.

“You’re going out?” she shrieked. “Have you seen the sky?”

“I’m going to the local park, there’s a shelter there. We’ll be fine,” I said as I quickly ended the call before Yitzi managed to undo the stroller straps.