My daughter has a friend. I never thought I would view this statement as something close to miraculous, but that’s how autism changes you. I no longer take friends—mine or my daughter’s—for granted.

I wrote a few weeks ago about the first graders who have befriended my autistic child. If I had any doubts about the developments underway, they vanished when I picked Katie up from school the other day. Spring Break had just begun, and the campus swirled with chaos. Crowds used to push Katie past her limits, but she’s learned to tolerate them, maybe even enjoy them on days when the mood bubbles over with excitement.

A girl ran up to us. She had long wavy hair and a beautiful smile. “Hi, Katie.”

Katie smiled and studied the clouds overhead.

“Katie,” I said. “What do you say?”

She glanced at the girl and looked away, jumping and flapping excitedly. “Hi, Katie.” When she can’t recall a name, which happens often, her name serves as the placeholder.

“Try again,” I said. I looked at the girl, who beamed up at me, clearly unfazed by Katie’s response. “What’s your name?”

“I’m London,” she said while looking at Katie. “Lon … don.”

It threw me a bit. To me that’s a place. But if Brooklyn worked as a name, then why not use London? And it suited her. The child oozed big city sophistication.

“Hi, London.”

“Hi, London,” Katie echoed. Her gaze flitted between London and me, then away.

London smiled. “I’m friends with Katie. I sit with her every day at recess.” She paused. “No, I sit with her in the lunch room. I would sit with her at recess but Katie doesn’t sit much.”

“No,” I laughed. “She doesn’t.”

My brain was still playing catch up. How was it possible that this gorgeous, chatty, outgoing girl was friends with my beautiful but decidedly quirky daughter? London had “most popular” written all over her. She could hang out with anyone she wanted at recess. Why Katie? It pains me to say it, but why Katie?

“Katie runs really fast.” London leaned towards me and lowered her voice. “And she climbs on the monkey bars with the boys.” Her face filled with awe.

It saddened me that a first grade girl thought any activity was limited to boys. “You could climb them too.”

“No,” she said. “I just watch Katie. She’s really good.”

“I can climb,” Katie said with a grin. She did a little dance and burst into song: “The itsy bitsy spider climbed up the water spout….”

London laughed. “She’s funny too.”

I nodded my head. “Hey, London. I know Katie doesn’t talk much, but if she did, I know she’d say she likes you sitting with her at lunch.” I could feel the tears pooling behind my eyes. “I want to thank you too.”

“It’s okay,” she said.

“It means a lot to me, and I’m sure it does to Katie too. So thank you.” You have no idea, London. You have absolutely no idea. I want to thank your mother too. Kiss her even. I’m so grateful I could cry.

“It’s okay,” she said, looking concerned.

Oh shit, I thought. She’ll think no wonder Katie’s weird because her mom is really strange, crying at school. I took a deep breath. “We need to get going. You have a super break, London, and Katie will see you in a week.”

London smiled. “Bye, Katie.”

There was a pause while Katie’s brain scrambled to assemble her response. “Bye, Li…. Bye, London.” She grinned, pleased with herself.

After a round of high fives, Katie and I made our way to the minivan. I cried on the drive home. Thank you, London. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Thanks to your parents, your family, your teacher, your school. But mostly, thanks to you.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.

I’m not sure how it happened, but my daughter has a friend—an actual, bona fide friend.

Until next time,
Cynthia Patton