Without a Word

”Sandi, I’m home.” I stood on the front porch and waited for her to unhook the door. When James began walking, I installed a simple hook on each storm door. If by waiting a few minutes for entry we could prevent tragedy, so be it. It’s such a small price.

Ian toddled up to the door and smiled at me.

“Ian, go get Mommy.”

His grin grew broader and he toddled away.

At 3, Ian was pre-verbal and still in diapers. His autism spectrum disorder diagnosis wouldn’t come for another year, and we were concerned with his lagging development. Knowing he was safe, I relaxed. Sandi would be there in a minute.

I heard a sound from the house and peered through the door.

Ian toddled back to me, pushing a kitchen chair, still wearing that broad grin. He stopped at the door, climbed up on the chair and lifted the hook. I stifled a groan.

“Thanks, big guy, you’re really helpful.” I lifted and hugged him, spinning around and making him giggle.

“Bill, you’re home,” Sandi said, her eyes wide. “I thought I hooked the door.”

I pointed to the chair and lifted Ian. Her eyes grew wider.

“He did that?” The impact set in and she groaned. “Oh, no, what are we going to do?”

“Relax, My Love, I have a plan.”

I tightened the last screw on the new, spring-loaded hooks and smiled. The new hooks stymied the boys for another four years, and then we installed patio door locks that required a key.

Older now and verbal, they always ask to go out and always obey our directions to stay in the yard. This makes me more comfortable, but I’ll never forget Ian’s grin when he figured out how to unhook the door without a word.

William Bartlett lives in Belton with his family.