A few months ago my 4-year-old daughter, Charlie, yelled from across the room, “Mommy, look!”

Her older brother, who doesn’t tend to pay her much attention, was hugging her.

She said, “Does this mean he loves me now?”

My heart broke.

Confession: I am a bit of a hypocrite. I advocate for autism awareness and everyone talking to their children about autism and I really hadn’t done it myself with my neurotypical child. We talk about differences and kindness and why everyone we meet is special, but we hadn’t had the “your brother has autism” conversation yet.

Part of me didn’t want to point out his differences to her. She had known and loved him just as he is for her whole life. Heck, she’s been advocating for him since she learned how to speak. I often overhear her saying things like “that hurts his ears” or “he can’t do that” to caregivers and friends.

At the Christmas tree farm this past winter, she overheard me telling my husband about the onlookers when I struggled to calm her big brother during a meltdown. Over the years, my patience has grown in these public meltdown situations, but those burning stares, that part hasn’t gotten any easier.

“I don’t like people looking at he,” she said. Her love for him is so immense. She’s always looked up to him, and somewhere along the line she started looking out for him.

This was probably around the time I felt like I was raising twins. I remember jokingly saying that several times, usually to address the elephant in the room that was our son’s developmental delays.

Two kids in diapers followed by two little potty-trainers. Both with similar interests and level of attention needed. We were in uncharted territory for years. Including when she slowly surpassed him in some areas. Nothing can prepare you for that.

The twin thing wasn’t funny anymore.

She watched me try to explain something to her brother one day and interrupted with “He no understand you because he’s Wilson.”

Comments like that chipped away at my heart. I knew I had some explaining to do. But I also wanted her to always look at him with that same unconditional adoration she always has. I struggled with telling her something that I knew would be very hard for her to understand versus her just knowing him with her heart like she always had.

So, I waited. I waited for what to say and when and why.

She comes along to drop him off at his special school every day, and sees all his peers, all with autism like her brother. Some look and behave similarly to her brother and some are very different or much older. She sees flapping and hopping and hears humming, moaning, and loud shrieks of joy or stress.

Leaving the school one day, she had a question about one of his older schoolmates she saw screaming that morning.

I told her about how special her brother’s school was, and that all the students there have something called autism. That sometimes her brother screams too because he can’t remember what words to say instead. “They have very special teachers there to help him learn and stay calm,” I explained.

We talked about her book, When Charley Met Emma, about a girl whose body looks different than hers, and she uses a wheelchair. I told her that although you can’t really see how Wilson is different, he is different in his mind and the way he thinks, learns, listens and says things. How he and all his friends do special things to keep their bodies calm, like humming, jumping or self-talking.

“Why does he have optimum? He has it because he not talk?” she asked.

“He has it because everyone is so different, and that is a great thing!” I said. “Just like how you get to wear your pretty glasses, lucky girl.”

She thought for a few moments. “I scream and cry too because I have a hard time, am I going to have optimum?”

“We all do sometimes, sweet girl. We are all so much the same, and our differences make us so special. Do you have any more questions about Wilson’s autism?”

“No, I just don’t want to get optimum.”

“You won’t, sweet girl.”