Blind Terror

Karen’s littl’un could have died...

- Alex Noone/Emmie Harrison

Karen Shelley, 42,

Kent

Red, blue, green, grey…

There wasn’t a car my lad Riley, 3, didn’t love.

Same with his little brother, Louie, 1.

The pair of them spent every minute vroom-vroom-ing their toy cars around!

That morning, last November, they’d been playing at the coffee table, speeding along an imaginary motorway from the settee to the telly.

‘Right, you two,’ I said. ‘I’m making lunch.’ 

‘Lunch!’ Louie babbled. 

Riley smiled. I knew he’d be looking forward to ham-and-cheese sandwiches – and a yogurt if he ate it all. 

But Riley never said much. 

A year before, he’d been diagnosed with autism. For me and the boys’ big sister Samantha, 16, it was hard.

The condition meant Riley found it difficult to relate to other people, to accept change. Language was a struggle, too. 

But, with us, he felt safe. 

‘You can get back to the cars after lunch, love,’ I said, ruffling his unruly, blond curls.

Samantha was in her room, doing her schoolwork. So I called up to her that lunch would be ready in five minutes, then went into the kitchen.

The kitchen’s open-plan to the front room, so I can keep an eye on the boys while I’m preparing food.