Here’s how one mom helps provide her adult neurodiverse son with independence.

By Carmen G. Farrell

A few months ago, someone called the police on me, questioning the choice I’d made for my 21-year-old’s independence. By the time the caller found me, she’d been pursuing my son on her bicycle, one hand on the handlebars, the other holding her cell phone to her temple.

“Are you the mom of the boy in the turquoise shirt?” she asked.

I nodded.

“It’s okay,” she said into her phone, “I found the parent.”

Disengaged from the non-emergency policing line, we stare at each other momentarily, both brains cartwheeling with what to say.

“I’m sorry,” she begins. “I thought he was lost. I could see he was…” Her voice trails off, not knowing how to characterize my son’s physical disabilities without offending me. “Well,” she ventures after a breath, “he wasn’t responding to me, and so I...”

“It’s okay,” I interrupt. “You were concerned, and you acted on it. Thank you for caring.”