Jonah continued to act out, and with increasing frequency, and none of his medication adjustments or behavior modification programs through his school seemed to make much difference. And it was during this time that my mother found a lump in her breast.

The diagnosis, the surgery, the chemo . . . It is impossible to adequately express the devastation — the shock, the fear, the horrors of treatment, the ongoing question of whether or not my mom would be okay. It would have been overwhelming enough just on its own, but the combination of that and the increasing difficulty of taking care of Jonah and meeting all his needs with my mom out of commission . . . Our struggle to hold it all together became hopeless. That’s when Jonah went on the waiting list for placement at a residential facility for people with disabilities.

My parents had avoided this step for years. Whenever it came up — either between themselves or in conversations with friends they’ve made through state organizations — one or the other of them would always say, “But he’s so young!” There were certainly aspects in which such a move might even be good for Jonah — a richer social life, more activities, easy access to therapies and programming and doctors — but weighing that against tearing up our family made for some dubious math. And as things grew more unmanageable, Jonah’s age no longer seemed like the determining factor. Suddenly the path veered into this new and terrible direction, steered by the realities of bodies, of mortality, of things we cannot control.

It was the hardest decision my parents ever made, although it’s probably moot — one of the first things we learned is that people spend years on waiting lists. The idea of continuing to manage Jonah on our own forever is almost as worrisome as the idea of him being far away from us, cared for by strangers. It makes it hard to even know what to hope for.

I watch Jonah, cautious. He’s about to make a move for the pantry — I can feel it. I gently try to turn him back to the living room.

He strikes out an arm, which fortunately I anticipated. Normally, he’s slow as molasses in January, my mom likes to say, but when he’s mad, he’s fast. When he’s mad, he is not to be underestimated.

But then the front door opens, and Jonah is distracted. My mom slips off her jacket and shakes the rain out of her closely cropped hair, which is finally starting to grow out post-chemo. “Hi, baby,” she calls to Jonah, who has turned in her direction. She comes over and gives him a long hug, which he leans into, making one of his happy sounds. Meeee, it sounds like. “Hey, honey,” she says to me over his shoulder. “How was your day?”

“Good.” I point at Jonah and then the pantry, mouthing a warning. “How was the appointment?” I ask her.