But that day, Evan was there.
Normally my neighbor watched him after school while I finished my shift. But her car had died that morning in a grocery store parking lot two towns over. Therapy had been canceled earlier that afternoon.
So I did what a lot of working parents do when life refuses to cooperate.
I improvised.
I packed Evan’s tablet, his thick noise-canceling headphones, his weighted vest, and the small plastic stegosaurus he carried everywhere. Then I brought him with me to the clinic.
The supply room in the back had a beanbag chair and a stack of unopened paper towel boxes. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was quiet.
For the first hour, everything went smoothly.
Between patients I peeked into the room. Evan sat cross-legged on the beanbag, watching the same train video he’d loved for years.
Steam engines, mostly.
He loved the rhythm.
