I remember the preliminary visit in the receiving of The Kid’s diagnosis; the prelude to the bomb that later dropped. The doctor, accustomed to a range of reactions after years of thirty-minute appointments spent barely observing a child before slapping a label on him (#notbitter), had fine-tuned his process so that his nurse/assistant/social worker spent the bulk of time with the families first: asking questions, dispensing surveys, and this: mentioning all the celebs who were likely on the spectrum.

Albert Einstein, Bill Gates, Bob Dylan…the list was varied and esteemed, and designed, I suppose, to soothe us before the sucker punch. I took it in, nodded obediently, feigned being impressed. Acted like we were receiving a gift from them rather than getting the air knocked out.

It was only later, midway through the denial and grief, months down the road, that I received the phone call that was everything that visit had tried to be: a friend of a friend with a kid like The Kid who had actually been there; the effort of putting a brave face to it didn’t ooze off him because there wasn’t any effort, only truth: One day you will realise you’ve been given a gift.

The words fell so much differently, later. They always do, on a heart that has been softened by time and tears rather than toughened by defence. Later is when it usually all happens.

We went to a birthday party on Sunday, and when I recapped it to a friend later, I explained how much easier birthday parties are now. How hard they used to be: first with just The Kid, who would circle the perimeter and study the goings-on from afar; I’d have to follow him closely but not too closely while fear and anxiety followed me, swirling around in a cocktail of frustration. Then Little Brother came along and I’d run interference between the two of them, exhausted physically in addition to the former emotional drain.

Not to be melodramatic.

Now, though? Well it was a bowling party. I assumed we’d give the lanes a shot then retire to the arcade, the three of us separate as usual. Instead, both the boys bowled alongside their peers, their friends, and each turn was a mini-celebration. TK decided, after LB scored a strike (with maternal aid), that “X’s are bad. You don’t want to knock down all the pins because X’s mean you’re wrong.” So we cheered for his partial removal of the pins too. Later, they sat at the table and scarfed down nuggets and cake and I was there, watching them and talking to friends. It felt like a Carnival cruise–and only because of the years prior.

LB has his own way of seeing and saying things too, the way he replaces B‘s with V‘s, refers to the villain Two-Face as Toothpaste, calls computers pa-yooters. They’re both into superheroes now, but especially LB, who lines up his Marvel and DC squishies in an impressive array of costumed powers. They are defined mainly according to the Good vs Bad distinction, and when they fight each other, the result is predictable: “Always the good guys win, Mommy.” I listen and agree, this oversimplification (and often non-truth) resounding in my brain with the follow-up, Eh, we’ll get into it more later before I let him knock out the villain I’m holding. (Always he gets to be the good guy.)

Because it seems like it should always be true, this idea that karma holds; that we do the right thing and are rewarded without fail; that the good guys always win. It feels like it should always be true, but it also feels like it isn’t. People get sick or in accidents; you look out for the kids in your kid’s class and still get angry parent emails; Netflix stops working (these grievances may not carry the same weight).

But underneath it all, I know it to be true because I believe it is. I know that just as anxiety has dogged me relentlessly all my life, something else has pursued me not only equally but harder. More unfailingly. Beyond karma, and fairness, and predictable outcomes, I believe that there is a later that changes the now. That sometimes things have to feel wrong before we see they’re right. Grace deserves the fullness of time to reveal its beauty.

The other day we found a new playground and trail and the four of us, our family, followed it down to the water. Awhile ago TK would have faltered, rejecting the unknown. On this day he went ahead of us all, declaring himself the leader. The birds–the ones who startled us all when we first arrived with their scream-like sounds–squawked above us on their own path, and we barely noticed, their voices a part of our normal, our later that is now.