That night, I had dinner with my father. It was a comforting feeling knowing that he wasn't eating alone anymore. I don't know if he thinks about these things as much as I do. He wasn't in the right state of mind to cook after what had happened with Francis, so he offered to order Indian food instead. We ate together in silence. 

I offered to wash the dishes for him and he stayed seated at the dining table, staring off into the distance at an urn that contained what remained of my mother. What was he feeling? Was he feeling blue? Guilty? Was he feeling orange? Confusion? 

I couldn't tell. 

"Juno," dad began out of nowhere. "Do you know why your mother gave you that name?"

I shook my head.

He didn't answer.

I turned to look at him, "Why did she give me that name?"

"I don't know either," he shrugged.

This made me laugh. However, I hadn't forgotten about the entire ordeal with Aunt Delancey and Francis. I wanted nothing more than to bring it up and clarify the dozen doubts that were floating about in my noisy mind, but I couldn't bring myself to voice them. I didn't want father to furrow his brows and raise his voice at me. 

Suddenly, I heard my phone vibrate. 

I dried my hands with a towel nearby and set it on top of a chair before rushing to the living room and picking it up. 

Warren had sent me a message. 

I unlocked my phone and opened the message. He had sent me a picture. It was a picture of him with two other people. He was taking the picture and was smiling into the camera. His dimples were visible underneath the lighting and wrinkles decorated the corners of his eyes because of how wide he was smiling. He had his hair pushed back neatly. 

Behind him was an elegant-looking woman with unnaturally dark hair that reached her waist. She was chubby and boasted dainty curves. She had a small smile on her face and her arm was wrapped around the waist of the man next to her who was slightly shorter than her and was balding. He was kissing her cheek. 

The picture had been accompanied by a message:

'I think he's pink and she's blue. I wanted to hear your thoughts.'

I found myself smiling at this. I went back to the picture and analyzed it for a brief moment before sending back a message stating that I agreed with him except the lady had a little bit of pink to her as well. With that, I set my phone aside and walked back into the kitchen. The smile hadn't left my face. I felt silly for feeling joyful, yellow, over this. 

He understood me. His mind worked the way mine did. 

Or maybe it didn't.

Maybe he was trying to understand my mind.

And this meant even more to me. 

"I've never seen a person smile that wide while doing the dishes," dad commented curiously. "What's got you so happy?"

"Can't a man be happy while doing some dishes?"

"You see, us common folks," dad began. "We're usually only happy when we're sleeping."

I laughed.

I thought about how he had used the term 'common folks'. It made me happy that he hadn't stopped himself after saying it to clarify that he didn't mean it in an offensive way. I was glad he didn't feel the need to clarify that he wasn't talking about my autism because I was already aware. Typically, people would say ambiguous things and then rush to their own defense, trying to explain themselves. This should make me feel reassured. It should. But it doesn't. It makes me feel little.. like a child. I often find myself being treated like a child when people are made aware of my autism. As a thirty year old man, this does anything but comfort me. 

My autism wasn't the only thing I'd had difficulty with growing up. I was also black. I grew up in a neighbourhood with white kids. I feel like I don't need to elaborate on this further but this was another thing I struggled to feel accepted for. I don't know why we have to seek acceptance for things that are not under our control. I don't know why I have to seek validation for having autism from neurotypical people. I don't know why I have to seek validation for being black from people who aren't black.

I want to simply exist the way I am.

I don't want to feel different from everybody else.