Edin is my fourth kid, almost 16. For years, worry about him suffused my waking, barely conscious brain. First thing every morning, gauzy threads of memory would lace together: Something dreadful, something that canāt be helped. What is it? Oh, right. Iād sprout up, fully awake. Edin.
Heād smiled late and babbled, just barely, many months later. āYou were anxious about the other three,ā Iād reassured myself, āand they all turned out fine.ā I calculated Iād be 62 before he could drive. I didnāt know it then, but Edin will likely never drive.
And then a year ago, as I turned 60 and he 16, I made the decision Iād avoided for years, out of a mix of denial and discomfortāto place him in a group home.
How could a mother do that to her teenager? What kind of mother? Not me, the midwife, psychiatric nurse practitioner, quintessential and ever-codependent caretaker. But today, Iām over the shame. Iām also over the shame of my child yelling in public. Iām done worrying someone will call the police if I donāt grab him ever so gently as he strides into a busy street. Iāve let go of the guilt of needing a break from his physical outbursts.
It took time, but Iām proud about my decision, and grateful that everyone who loves me offered support. (Except my 20-something daughters; but isnāt it their job to think I make ill-begotten parenting decisions? And even they finally came around.) The support alone astonished and fortified me.
In clinical terms, Edin lives with āmoderate to severe autism.ā Heās āminimally verbalā or an āunreliable speaker.ā But those descriptors conjure a bleak picture, which doesnāt suffice. When he was young, I learned if I seemed sad when using those words to describe him, Iād garner unwanted pity. So I pivoted: āMy baby? Heās on the autism spectrum. And how are your kids?ā I didnāt have time for the worst-thing-I-could-possibly-imagine-as-a-parent look on othersā faces that only reminded me why I woke each morning with dread.
So now, am I grateful for him? I have incisor scars punctuating my body from him, but I doubt anyone could be more purely affectionate, smile down on me with such love, or touch my hand with so much caring.

Yet as a diminutive and older mother, I needed a break. What do I mean by diminutive? One day, my oldest, now 30, came home from high school announcing, āMommy, Mommy! You have a disability! You should get money from the government. Youāre a dwarf!ā
āI am not a dwarf!ā I barked, affronted.
āYou are too! Anyone under 4ā10ā is a dwarf! Youāre a dwarf! Look it up!ā
I was 4ā9ā then, a little less now. I never filed for Disability and just continued climbing counters to fetch dessert plates from top shelves. But Ed, as we call Edin, is still growing. At 16, heās taller than most of his siblings and towers over me.
From early childhood, he bit, kicked, pinched, tore clothes, and threw electronics when frustrated and unable to express himself. As he grew older and tried to restrain himself, heād blurt out his wants. But if I didnāt tear down the stairs after hearing him call, āI need a plate!ā heād beat me to the cupboard and hurl dinner dishes to the floor. I understood this smashing released pent-up frustration without hurting his family members, but moments later heād sob with remorse and calm down only once he fell asleep.
At 60, Iām in pretty good shape but can no longer beat him to the cupboard. Iām also a divorced, single mom doing this all on my own, with an older teen still living at home, whoās coping with his own testosterone-fueled issues and feeling sidelined by a brother with special needs. I can no longer fill everyoneās needs or wake at 5 a.m. and function. I canāt worry on every walk or errand together that Edin will lash out and become violent because of uneven pavement, an overly crowded space, or a food he despises being in the grocery cart.
From the time Ed was six or seven, his caseworker, Jo Ann, a lovely woman, has made an annual home visit. Year after year, Iāve felt increasingly depressed through hours of questions that have reminded me that, no, Edās verbal skills hadnāt developed much, nor had his pedestrian safety, or his ability to pay at a cash register, or keep his hands to himself and not hurt himself or others. Every year, the epic Q&A has ended with: āI have to ask this question of every parent or guardian. Are you sure youād like to keep Edin living with you? Or would you like to explore residential alternatives?ā
āOf course heāll stay here!ā Iāve always answered. Until I knew he couldnāt.
Once the pandemic began, I had thoughts of Edin living somewhere better for him and for us, but I banished them with self-loathing: I should be able to take care of him myself! Iām his mother! I Imagined him sobbing at the door of some dilapidated, overcrowded foster or group home, or screaming his favorite anguished quote from Chicken LittleāāThe sky is falling!āāand running after the car as I pulled away.
How Could I?
It was impossible for him to stay at home and for me to make him leave. So I lived the clichĆ© of taking it one day at a time. I told myself, āToday, apparently, isnāt the day to make that decision. When it is, Iāll know.ā
From the outset of the pandemic, I had a caregiver stay with Ed for online school while I offered mental healthcare to patients via telehealth. Most days, I was sure Edin could continue to live with us. His behavior was getting so much better, wasnāt it? Weād fine-tuned his meds. He smiled into my eyes with his special combination of whimsy and love. We cuddled. He seemed happy. He showered and brushed his teeth, and independently followed morning and evening clean-up and bathing routines. He even put himself to bed; all I had to do was turn out the light.
And yet, one day, when we went for our regular 30-minute walk and unexpectedly had to step off the path onto irritatingly squishy grass to let a mom with a stroller pass, he bit my shoulder through my jacket and shirt so hard that it left a neat, searing lace of toothmarks on my skin. On days like that, I was slow to pull myself from a morose funk. Even if I did move him out of the house, heād surely still bite, kick, and hit his way out of his new setting. Then what would become of my boy?

Then one morning, it happened. Edin woke before 5 a.m. and began loudly reciting funny quips from Despicable Me and Madagascar, complete with spot-on tone and cadence, but to me, before daylight, they werenāt funnyāand I started to weep. I canāt do this anymore, I thought. Iām 60. Donāt I deserve a bit of a life? Doesnāt Edinās brother deserve a bit of peace, with no violence, no trauma? This canāt be any good for Edin either.
That weekend, I stood at my bedroom window and sobbed. I tried reading the paper in the living room and burst into tears. As I drove Edin to the market, tears burned warm rivulets down my cheeks. He reached over and softly took my hand, saying nothing, his brow furrowed.
I knew this to be anticipatory griefāI had made a decision, which I steered into reality when I shared it with my closest friends. By the end of the weekend, I was prepared. On Monday, I called Jo Ann to say I wanted to move Edin into foster care. It took five months to find a match for him. In that time, I was alternately glad it was taking so long and eager for it to be over. I thought for sure some family would want to love him, but I worried his aggression would put off even the most well-meaning potential helpers.
And it did. Jo Ann would tell me lovely stories of foster couples with a teddy bear of a dad or a retired nurse with great experience fostering. We had to create a āpacketā for them about Edin. Yes, Edin was affectionate, smart, and loving. Yes, Edin got aggressive and could destroy property or inflict injury. Yes, Edin could toilet and bathe himself independently. Yes, Edin could walk into traffic if unattended.
The rejections cascaded in. I met a girlfriend for a drink after a long week. As I entered the cafĆ©, my phone pinged with an email from Jo Ann. Yet another āno, thank youā from a foster parent on whom Iād hung increasingly desperate hopes. No one wanted my boy. I sat down with my friend and just cried.
I spoke to another friend with an adult son who, like Edin, is on the spectrum. āDonāt rule out group homes!ā she insisted. āWiden your geographic reach. You never know where the right home is. Donāt lose hope!ā
It dawned on me that if I couldnāt handle Edin, how would another single mom or retired nurse or aging teddy bear dad? Group homes, in contrast, were run by professional companies. They worked shifts. If it was a hard day, it wouldnāt be a hard night for them, because they could leave.
Iād made my decision. But would any group home match?
I began talking to Edin about his move. One weekend while practicing letter boardingāa process where those on the autism spectrum point to letters on an alphabet board to āspeakā their thoughtsāI read a newspaper article about a meteor shower aloud. Ed jerked his arm to stab at me with his pencil. I flinched, pulling away. I began to cry again. āI love you so much, but I just canāt do this anymore,ā I told him. āYouāre going to have to live somewhere else. I will always love you and be your mom. This isnāt your fault, but I canātā.ā
Ed scrunched up his forehead, tilting his head back and to the side. Heād never looked at me that way. He understood.
āItās going to be okay. I promise,ā I said, watching his face relax with my words, but knowing I was unsure of any such thing.
Soon after, Jo Ann called. āThereās a home in Milwaukie thatād like to do a screening interview. Two teens live there, both girls. Edin would be the third and only other youth; they max out at three. Itās new.ā
Three kids. A new home. Not like the dilapidated, chaotic, nightmare house Iād conjured up in my mind. Edin and I attended the virtual screening interview. The company owned more than 30 residences, and the founder, who was at the interview, had started the business for her own disabled daughter. I liked her. They liked Edin.
I went on a tour with a friend whoād served as a court-appointed special advocate for a foster child. āDonāt expect much,ā sheād warned before the tour. As weād left the group home, sheād exclaimed, āI canāt believe how nice it is!ā
We set a date for Edin to move, in one month. I wrote whatās called a social storyāa brief explanation of a new scenario that helps people on the spectrum plan and respond: āWhen you get to be a teenager and you have autism, if youāre really lucky, you get to move to a new home to learn to be more independent. You get to live with other teenagers and have your own room, and all your things will be there too. Youāll get to visit our house and go to your same school.ā
Meanwhile, the caregiver who worked with us drove Edin to the new house once a week to eat lunch with his soon-to-be-housemates. āI donāt want to move to Perry House,ā Edin began repeating.
I was ready. I didnāt cry. āYeah, I bet,ā Iād nod. āItās scary to move to a new place. But youāre going to live there. And youāll do great! Iām so proud of you. What color do you want to paint the walls in your new room?ā
āI donāt want to move to Perry House.ā
āYup, I hear you, Ed. But youāll move, and I think itās going to be really good.ā
I was prepared for a total fail, but I worked hard to stay optimistic. I wrote more social stories: āOn Sunday, your caregiver and I will move your big things to Perry House. On Monday, late in the afternoon, weāll take the rest of your books and toys and clothes. You can keep a little suitcase with your electronics and a change of clothes and anything else you want here for your last night. Then on Tuesday you get to move to Perry House!ā
Three nights before his move, Edin came into my room warm and fragrant, smelling of lavender soap. Every night, independently, he plugs the tub, showers, and lies in the bath to relax, calm and quiet in the steam and waterāa ritual since childhood.
This night, he cuddled up with me afterward, looked me in the eye, calm but intent, and said, āI need a bath at Perry House.ā
āI knew youād need a bath, Ed,ā I told him. āThey have the bath all ready for you. You just havenāt seen it yet. I got you. Iām making sure they have everything you need.ā
He beamed and snuggled up to hug me, warm and redolent, serene.

Itās been a year since Edinās move, and heās grown more than he could have if he hadnāt moved. His speech development has accelerated, his aggression has dropped off precipitously, and his independence as a young man has risen sharply. His chest puffs as he tells me about his day, what he can do, or how happy he is.
I look forward to seeing him on FaceTime every night at 8:15 p.m., even if he hasnāt quite mastered the medium. āI see your hair and forehead!ā I say. āYour eyelids look good tonight.ā He moves his face into view, and then forgets again.
One evening, when he didnāt answer my call, twice, I started to worry he was suddenly too old and teenager-y to speak to his mother. But the next morning, when I rolled over and picked up my phone, I saw that heād called, twice, at 3:56 a.m. My heart hummed. He still wanted to talk.
āOh no,ā his house manager had insisted when I asked her if he was growing disinterested in us. āHe clasps his iPad in his lap after showering every night, waiting for your call. Iāll ask him if he wants to call youāhe canābut he doesnāt want to. He just holds it and waits, grinning.ā
Diane Solomon
Diane Solomon, PhD, is a writer, nurse-midwife, psychiatric nurse practitioner, and adjunct professor at Oregon Health and Science University. Specializing in well-being, women’s mental health, and adult psychiatry, she’s written about psychological health across the lifespan for Psychology Today, HuffPost, The Gerontologist, BMJ Supportive and Palliative Care, and others.