By Lauren Belfer

I’ve always loved doing homework. It’s one of the most important things to know about me. The more, the better. I love doing homework so much that I created a profession for myself, writing historical fiction, in which every day brings new and exciting questions to research—in other words, an endless supply of  homework.

The day I realized that my fourth-grade son wasn’t doing his homework—hadn’t done it in weeks, possibly months, hated it with a deep, abiding passion, and had been developing increasingly clever subterfuges to convince me and his teachers that he was, in fact, doing it (such clever subterfuges that planning and carrying them out must have consumed much more energy than simply doing the homework to begin with)—I was mystified. Why didn’t he want to learn the way I did; the natural way, the traditional way, the homework way?

Admittedly, this homework revelation didn’t come as much of a surprise. I’d recognized for a long time that my son differed from me. When he was three years old, we were walking along Central Park West to his preschool on a brilliant October day. The park was in its autumnal glory, with every shade of leaf tossing in the breeze. I said, “Oh, sweetheart, look at all the beautiful autumn leaves. They’re yellow and orange and red. I feel so good inside, looking at all the beautiful autumn leaves.” He responded, in the same elegiac tone, “Oh, mommy, look at all the beautiful cars. They’re yellow and orange and red, and blue and black, too. I feel so good inside, looking at all the beautiful cars.”

Yes, some of the ways he was different from me were delightful, but others were becoming a challenge. By the time he was in first grade, and at the prompting of his teachers and counselors, I began learning about concepts I’d never had a reason to pay attention to before: ADD, ADHD, ODD, ASD. Some of the details of these terms applied to him, some didn’t; diagnoses now gathered under the useful umbrella of neurodiversity, a word that acknowledges the fluidity of children and their development. Doing research gave me a framework for my son’s experiences and for my own. Furthermore, I came to understand that doing research was how I attempted to control the world, even as my household slipped increasingly out of control due to my son’s frustration, rage, barrage of bad language, and sometimes ugly defiance. By 9 a.m. each day, I was yearning for bedtime. I despaired about whether he could ever find a place in a society organized by and for people who didn’t process the world the way he did. 

Even though he disliked school, he could spend hours on a topic if it interested him; it became my mission to find those topics. He loved working with his hands and enjoyed observing the maintenance staff in our apartment building. Soon, he could repair almost anything around the house. He easily put together furniture from kits—chairs that held together without wobbling, and bookcases that didn’t teeter, as they always did when I attempted to put them together. He became the handyman of our household. I recognized his singular charm and described it to him so he’d know how unusual and special it was. He was a terrific athlete, and watching his feats on the field amazed me. When I was young, I was always the last kid chosen for every team, and I told him so. These traits represented who he was as much as the other, more challenging aspects of his personality. 

Doing research gave me a framework for my son’s experiences and for my own. Furthermore, I came to understand that doing research was how I attempted to control the world, even as my household slipped increasingly out of control due to my son’s frustration, rage, barrage of bad language, and sometimes ugly defiance.

However, as I helped him cope, I needed resources to help me cope. I felt lost, and alone—unable to share my concerns with the other moms as we sat on playground benches or stood on the sidelines at soccer games. They spoke with ease about the details of their daily lives. Their kids did homework, set the table, had friends, went on playdates and sleepovers, and generally lived within the boundaries of what people call normal. I felt self-conscious about the stark differences in my home, so I said nothing. 

I did confess the secrets of my household to several long-time friends. You’re too lenient with him, they’d say sagely. You’ve got to be stricter and give clear consequences. They spoke with more than a tinge of condescension, as if they were better informed than I was. They didn’t understand that from my son’s perspective, taking the consequences was often the only option for him, because he wasn’t wired to do things the way most other kids did. Hearing nothing but condemnation, I stopped telling friends the truth of my life.

As the years passed, I came to know other moms who had children like mine, and I also came to know these children—each one different from the others, and uniquely beautiful. Because I’m a fiction writer, I wanted to read novels that focused on experiences like mine, stories told from a mother’s perspective, but I couldn’t find any. 

When I wrote my latest novel, Ashton Hall, I decided to present a boy who shared traits of the neurodiverse kids I’d come to know, and to portray his mother like the mothers I’d come to know—all transformed through the alchemy of fiction. The plot of Ashton Hall hinges on a discovery that Nicky, the novel’s fictional little boy, makes at the historic manor house where he and his mother are staying for the summer—a discovery Nicky is able to make because of his neurodivergence, not in spite of it. I presented his cheerful optimism. I created a close friend for Nicky because neurodiverse kids sometimes have difficulty making friends. I tried to give a voice to moms whose marriages are straining under the weight of things that can only be managed, not solved. At the heart of Ashton Hall is the unbreakable bond between mother and son. Through the course of the novel, Nicky evolves, becoming ever more himself, an individual like no other. To his mother’s joy, he becomes the hero of his own life.

My son, too, became the hero of his life. He learned to cope better and found a way to make his surroundings work for him. When he became an adult, the internet made it possible for him to set up a business freed from the daily regimentation he’s always found intolerable, allowing him to work for himself and his clients, on his own hours, without a supervisor. Because he still knows how to fix almost anything simply by examining the problem, he’s been able to expand the business beyond the internet. His natural charm leads to excellent relationships with clients. He says childhood is often hard for people like him, but adulthood can be easier. As an adult, he can solve problems in novel ways because he sees the world in novel ways. With a confidence and self-awareness that astonish me, he says that he’s never felt pressure to fill the box labeled normal because he’s always known that he can’t fill it. 

His business, as it happens, focuses on cars.

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Lauren Belfer was born in Rochester, New York, and grew up in Buffalo, where she attended the Buffalo Seminary. At Swarthmore College, she majored in Medieval Studies. After graduating, she worked as a file clerk at an art gallery, a paralegal, an assistant photo editor at a newspaper, a fact checker at magazines, and as a researcher and associate producer on documentary films. She has an M.F.A. from Columbia University.

Her debut novel, City of Light, was a New York Times bestseller, as well as a New York Times Notable Book, a Library Journal Best Book, and a Main Selection of the Book of the Month Club. Her second novel, A Fierce Radiance, was named a Washington Post Best Novel of 2010 and an NPR Best Mystery of 2010. Her third novel, And After the Fire, received a 2016 National Jewish Book Award. A new, paperback edition of her fourth novel, Ashton Hall, will be published on May 2, 2023. The New York Times Book Review recommended Ashton Hall.