After giving my child a proper talking-to the other day, he has finally understood that Mom isn’t always available. It was about time—he’s sixteen! So yesterday I told him: I’ll be at the doctor’s, please don’t keep calling me like you usually do. Only call if something’s wrong, okay?
He only called twelve times.

Unfortunately, he calls other people too—and if he can’t reach them, he tries even harder. I keep repeating that this is not how it’s done: if you can’t reach someone, you wait for them to call back, and after 7 p.m. you don’t call anyone except family—at most your very best friend. But since that very best friend specifically asked not to be called late because their family goes to bed early, and my dear son keeps ringing anyway, the friend often ends up blocking Kende. Then Kende comes to me to complain—again, for the two-hundred-and-twenty-sixth time. Every single time, I patiently explain: your friend blocked you because you kept calling even though he asked you not to… do you understand?
It’s the same with texting. If you don’t pick up the phone, he writes. If you don’t reply, he writes even more…

But luckily, the other day he finally understood that Mom isn’t always available. Since then, before addressing me, he now tacks onto the beginning of whatever he wants to say—like an indispensable accessory—a monotone, declarative, even commanding, rapid-fire phrase: “Are you free!” And then he launches into his monologue.

Autistic children have to be taught everything separately that others learn by imitation — often with a lot of patient repetition. Very patient, with much repetition. Repetition. That is, repetition.

For years I’ve been telling Kende to put his clothes in the laundry basket in the evening. In vain — he leaves them on the floor. For years I’ve been telling him to take his plate away after eating — he leaves it on the table. For years I’ve been asking him not to pee on the toilet seat — yet he still pees on it. When that happens, I send him back, he protests, I insist, he gets upset and resists, I pretend to be very angry (though sometimes I don’t have to pretend much), then I threaten to take away his phone or mowing time, and then he finally does what I asked, grumbling. But usually, various swear words start flying around, which I generously put down to his Tourette’s syndrome, so we don’t have to argue about the same things all the time.
Lately, Kende often asks how long he still has to go to this school. I always tell him, “just this year, then you graduate.” He says, “I’d already go from here.” I understand him. He has been going there for nine years now and learns more or less the same things; he still counts within 10 or 20 and reads and writes on a first-grade level. He often says: “Tomorrow I’ll go on sick leave.” He hears this from his sister, who goes to a vocational school and already works every other week. There, you can’t just stay home for no reason — only if you’re on sick leave.

Lately, my son has been sick a lot. Even last school year he was almost always at home, and I was already afraid he’d have to repeat the year. And now this year, already in the second week, he got sick again, and last week too he was at home. At times like that, he blasts folk music in the living room and songs like Bogyó és Babóca for preschoolers, about two hundred and forty times a day. Speaking of repetition. And he wants pancakes. Every day. And every five minutes he asks the same questions. You can probably guess what my days are like. I cook him something healthy then, which of course he won’t eat, because it’s disgusting. Needless to say, I would also be glad if he were at school more. But no matter how much I tell him that he has to go to school, and that if he doesn’t, he’ll have to repeat the year, he just keeps repeating, a hundred and fifty times a day, that he doesn’t care, that I should leave him alone, and that he’s very sick.
Lately, though, he usually says all this rather kindly, which makes me melt completely, since I’m used to his wild swearing and banging. He’s sixteen, strong — I can’t drag him by force even into the next room, let alone to school.

But then I had an idea, when he kept complaining about how bored he was.

So that’s how our entertaining sick leave sadly came to an end, and the repetition of gray weekdays began again. I think I am the one who is a little bored now.

This summer marked the first time that Kende and Kíra stayed alone at my parents’ house by Lake Balaton, where they reside during the warmer months.

For as long as I can remember, we’ve spent our summers in the Káli Basin, nestled among the vineyards—an estate my paternal grandfather inherited almost seventy years ago. This place not only holds my children’s memories but also the enduring recollections of my father’s and my own childhood. Thirty years ago, we lit our way with oil lamps, took showers using watering cans, and relied on an outhouse. Water was drawn from the well, and we slept in a crumbling cellar—some on benches, others on tables, and still others on the creaky, musty camping cots that whispered stories of the past. Over the years, however, the house has been transformed into a modern refuge, with everyone enjoying their own private rooms, mirroring the increasing estrangement of the world around us. My children know only the comforts of this place, where my mother greets us with delicious home-cooked meals, and I, at long last, can rest.

Kende’s first encounter with this place occurred during a late spring, when he was but an infant, still held in the crook of my arm. The moment his curious eyes met the land, with its newly whitewashed house, he surveyed it with an unusual intensity for one so young. After a thorough examination, he offered a solitary, knowing nod, accompanied by a smile—one that seemed borrowed from an old soul—approving the changes my father had made over the past five decades. Through his efforts, this humble, decaying wine cottage had been transformed into a charming farmhouse that blends seamlessly with the countryside. Even as a toddler, Kende delighted in being here, eagerly cracking walnuts and stumbling through the vineyard. Since childhood, he’s had a special affinity for the work that surrounds this garden, and in recent years, he has become a dedicated helper to my father. Initially, he watched the tractor with wide eyes from a safe distance, but over time, he gained the courage to climb aboard. Last year, he even took on the responsibility of mowing the lawn—entirely on his own. Whether he’s grown tall enough to do so or not, it no longer matters.

When we stay here for the summer, my mother’s bountiful tables are always paired with my father’s fine wine. As for the children, my mother has long offered them alcohol-free beer. They don’t have this luxury at home, for I am a firm advocate of a sugar-free lifestyle. As such, they hold the rare “kid-free beer”—as Kende has come to call it—in high esteem. This year, Kíra reached her eighteenth birthday, and we offered her wine, to which she swiftly took a liking. With that, the “kid-free beer” was relegated to the past, not only for her, but for Kende as well, who now enjoys a spritzer with the adults (one part wine, the rest soda—but still!).

August. For me, it’s perhaps the hardest time of the year. Sometimes I go as long as two weeks without my children. Right after the divorce, it actually felt like fun—being free again, having time for myself, traveling, not having to adjust to anyone.

Enjoying the quiet. Really hearing the silence. Only then did I realize how much pressure I had been under before. When the kids were home, I never noticed it. But after noisy little Kende left, the hot, heavy silence settled over me and the house, broken only by the sound of a plane overhead, the still trees, the burning sun. Life seemed to stop. Even the phone barely rang. Over time—seven years now since my ex-husband moved out—Augusts have only grown harder. In the empty house, everything reminds me of the broken family, everything of the children: the garden steps where three-year-old Kíra once fell and split her lip, bleeding badly; the pool where their sticky little hands clung to me so tightly I couldn’t move; the railing they climbed like little monkeys; the hammock on the terrace where Karsa slept and where we read stories together in the evenings. All of that is in the past now. Normally, I don’t even think about it. But somehow in August I slow down, and whether I want to or not, I drift back in time, reliving what has passed but still lives inside me.
The first ten years were especially hard. Looking back, I often wonder how I managed at all. Three children in four years, and the first two were slow to become independent. For three years, Kende woke up eight times a night, every night, while I was carrying and then nursing Karsa. Kende didn’t speak until he was five—but if we couldn’t guess his unspoken thoughts, he would bite hard. In his tantrums, he would run headfirst into the wall again and again while I watched, helpless. All three were in diapers at the same time, and sometimes I couldn’t leave the house for weeks without help. Once, while feeding Kende and nursing Karsa, I forgot about Kíra on the potty—by the time I got to her, she had painted a mural on the wall with poop. Those years blur together now, endless at the time. Yet even then, a voice inside whispered that time should not be rushed—it passes too quickly anyway. So I tried to enjoy every moment, especially once I learned that two of my children were autistic. I even sold my business so I could devote myself fully to them. That was not an easy decision—I agonized for months, even years, losing sleep over what would happen to my life, my career, our security, and who I would be after giving up the independence I had always loved.

But no answer ever came. There was only the present, and the unpredictable future that is so typical with children like mine. They constantly pulled me back into the now—into an isolated life that couldn’t be planned. And strangely, I came to enjoy every minute of it—not only because they needed me, but because over time, I needed them too.

They say that autistic children would rather starve than eat something they don’t desire.

No amount of parental intention—no matter how well-meaning or how many times I repeat, “when the child is hungry, they will eat”—seems to make a difference. It simply doesn’t work for them. They are too stubborn, too revolted by certain things. For years, my struggle has been with my autistic children’s insatiable craving for carbohydrates, knowing full well that these are damaging to them. I persist, repeating my efforts, trying not to buy sweets, bread, or pastries, and preparing an abundance of vegetables, meat, and fish. Yet, it’s all in vain. For when Kende experiences one of his binge episodes, he finds every last piece of moldy chocolate I’ve hidden away, as if guided by a finely-tuned radar for sugar. Kíra, now a young woman, has her own money, and when she’s hungry, she pops into a bakery for a quick fix of easily-digestible carbohydrates.

Eight years ago, I managed, with great difficulty, to impose on them and the rest of the family what is known as the GAP (Gut and Psychology Syndrome) diet, which for six months had us eating only meat, fish, vegetables, and fruit—no carbohydrates, no dairy. It was grueling. I lost weight myself. We were isolated, unable to attend social events like children’s parties, for our strange behavior had already distanced us enough from the world. Even at school, the children could only bring the meals I prepared in advance. And in the summer, no ice cream was allowed. But despite all of it, the diet brought no results.

Time has since passed, and now the situation has shifted. It’s no longer I who dictates what is eaten. Nowadays, if I tell Kende that I’m not baking pancakes, he’ll simply mix the batter himself, starting a chaotic process of splattering and spilling. Eggs spill onto the furniture; flour drifts through the air; the cat laps up the milk from the counter… and so begins the inevitable kitchen cleanup. When I buy cocoa, because my younger son asks for it, Kende will pour the entire packet into a glass of milk, creating a mass so sweet it’s nearly undrinkable. He cannot control his impulses. Thus, the consumption of carbohydrates is something we cannot avoid.

So, I was taken aback when Kende announced last week that he was going to Grandma’s house on his scooter, because she has a blood sugar monitor.