AFTER A SLEEPY Saturday morning on my son Andrew’s 15th birthday, I whisk him off to a shoe shop near our home in Toronto to get a pair of sandals. We know the exact style and size he wants, and we time the trip to arrive right when the store opens. Andrew is nonspeaking autistic and prefers to go shopping when it’s not busy.
“Size 41 of those black slip-on sandals, please,” I tell the two clerks at the shop when we arrive.
Andrew slips his socked feet into the shoes with no protest or head banging (signs of distress we have