If only you were a regular child;

I would have tried my best not to sell my first car. That old black Hyundai hatchback would have been your first too. I would have already taught you how to change a flat tire by 15, how to drive by 16, and how to ‘properly’ drive at 17. By now, your driver’s license is just formality and bragging rights.

That car came with a stick shift, and rightfully so. Because, my love, you need to know how to drive manual. And check the water and oil every morning. And replace spark plugs when necessary. It would have been our project car, and we would keep it in shape so you don’t have to worry while driving to the university everyday. You will never, ever need a boy to drive you or troubleshoot your car.

We would have already attended at least three Coldplay concerts by now. Your mom and I would have worked really hard for one in Glastonbury. And the three or four of us would have danced and cried to Charlie Brown every single time like there’s no tomorrow.

And you wouldn’t have to stop at just listening to their music. I would have taught you guitar at 12 and you should be able to embarrass a boy who’s trying to impress you with a cheesy and overused D-A-Bm-G love song with an accurate rendition of ‘Til Kingdom Come.

You would have known how to flambé gracefully by now. And a plate of stir-fried noodles with no ‘wok hei’ would be utterly unacceptable. You would have known how to make Neapolitan pizza from scratch, complete with a proper ‘cornicione’ crust. And you would profoundly learn this year, as you turn eighteen, that the best burger only needs exactly ten ingredients plus salt and pepper.

My love, you would have been an amazing cook and foodie like mom and dad. And you would enjoy dining with us at restaurants, both ours and not, just to expand your palate and your passion.

But you are not a regular child.

You will never learn or need to drive. Or check spark plugs. Or change tires. There won’t be college. There won’t be college boys for me to intimidate on first meetings.

You will never have the tolerance and sensory capacity to endure a three hour concert, or the connecting flights to Heathrow. You will never have the patience and fine motor skills to pluck strings and strum.

You will never have the attention span to study a recipe, mise en place, follow steps and measurements. There will never be weekends for you to show off the latest, unheard-of-before exotic dish that you have recently learned and respectfully prepared. And the part that will hurt the most is that you will never be accepted and respected on all restaurants.

All because you have autism.

But my love, that’s okay.

I will always be here to drive for you. To special school. To therapy sessions. To occasional staycations. And I will be willing to go on random joyrides with fastfood drive-thru until my last breath.

I will always be here to make sure that the joyrides came with your favorite music. And that there’s music on Chromecast when we get home. I will learn and re-learn the songs on my guitar so I never forget. I’m no Chris Martin, but I will never stop singing for you. Look at the stars.

For every restaurant where you are not welcome, your mom and I will continuously and relentlessly work hard to build restaurants where you and other children with special needs are genuinely respected, accepted, and served with a smile.

And on other days in between, I will be here to cook for you. Whether it’s artisan Hokkien Mee or Pad Kee Mao made from scratch, or the king of all instant noodles, Lucky Me Chili-mansi.

I love you like our shared love for noodles. Forever.

Happy 18th birthday, Sam!