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For years, it’s been impossible to say why I insist, nightly, on setting out five plates and five forks and something hot in a pan that I’d be embarrassed by if any adult I wasn’t married to caught sight of. Though all research trumpets the importance of family dinners, I sometimes wonder if these researchers actually do it themselves. These days, our dinners usually feel like a nightly opportunity for everyone to think of new and imaginative ways to complain about the food. Generally, we begin with the four-year-old’s pronouncement, said ritually like grace, that he is allergic to all food except noodles. Following this, the eight-year-old begins the elaborate process of separating any food that has touched another, and eventually we segue into the moment when the eleven-year-old lays his cheek on the table and says he’s too tired for all this all over again. Truly, I've wondered sometimes if maybe not eating together would bring us closer, or at least spare us the nightly speech from their father: “Mom has cooked us a lovely dinner. I’d like everyone to thank Mom for the food.”

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As a social butterfly type who apparently didn’t think through the 95%-of-the-time-spent-in-isolation aspect of writing when I chose my career, book group visitations are a fabulous development. For some of us, in fact, they’re as rewarding as a paycheck: a group of friendly, literate strangers, a wine glass in every hand, a coffee table groaning with food, everyone assembled to talk about—well, a book that’s certainly interesting to me! Of course, the ideal group is sixteen women who loved the book and bought extra copies to get signed and pass on as Christmas and birthday presents, but I have to admit I even enjoy the opposite extreme: four retired English teachers who’ve all shared a library copy and have one or two problems with some plot points. Inevitably, I can’t help but appreciate the care with which they’ve read the book, and the reminder that there are careful, smart readers out there.

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If summer is a time for family reunions and visiting old friends, when you’re the parent of a child with autism, it’s also a time for taking stock and hoping to hear accolades from people who haven’t seen your child for a while: I can’t believe how well he’s doing/how much he’s talking/how great he seems. Sadly, this summer, we haven’t heard too much of this.

All children with autism go through ups and downs. There are phases of mysterious and surprising leaps, where you look at every supplement, every therapy and food he’s eaten to explain some new, remarkable clarity. Then there are the phases like the one our 11-year-old, Ethan, seems to have been in most of the summer: not dreadful, just a lot of mindless humming, lots of silence, lots of staring out windows watching other children play in our backyard.