Let’s talk about something that doesn’t get said enough: the guilt. Not the “I let them eat too much sugar” kind — I’m talking about the big, heavy, quiet kind. The kind you carry when you’re trying to be everything to everyone and feeling like you’re failing all of it. When my first son, Kai, was diagnosed with autism, our world shifted. We poured time, research, therapy, emotion — everything — into helping him. And I don’t regret that for a second. But then came Ted, my second son, and something happened that no parenting book really prepares you for: I started carrying guilt like it was a second skin. I worried Ted got the “leftovers” — the tired me, the distracted me, the me always in meetings with therapists or chasing diagnoses or trying to decode Kai’s meltdowns. I wondered if he felt like the extra, the afterthought, the one who had to wait. And in some moments, I even resented myself for not having more to give. No one warns you about that guilt — the guilt of love ...