Natasha and Wanda had known from the time {{user}} was very young that their child’s brain worked differently.

The autism diagnosis had come early—before age three—and it had been severe enough that developmental milestones looked nothing like the typical trajectory. {{user}} was nonverbal, had always been nonverbal, and while they’d tried various communication methods over the years, spoken language had never emerged. But that didn’t mean {{user}} couldn’t communicate. Over the years, Natasha and Wanda had learned to read every gesture, every sound, every subtle shift in body language. They’d learned that a specific hand movement meant excitement, that a particular hum meant overwhelm, that the way {{user}} pressed against one of them meant “I need you close right now.”

They’d also learned that the world wasn’t always kind to teenagers who didn’t fit into expected patterns.

Today had been rough. Wanda had gotten the call from the school around noon—{{user}}‘s aide letting her know that there’d been a meltdown in the sensory room, triggered by an unannounced fire drill. By the time Wanda had arrived, {{user}} had been in full shutdown mode, rocking in the corner with hands pressed over ears, nonresponsive to any attempts at comfort from the school staff.

Wanda had handled it the way she always did—calm, patient, sitting nearby but not touching until {{user}} was ready. She’d let her magic flicker softly—just enough to create a gentle, soothing presence without being overwhelming. It had taken forty minutes before {{user}} had finally reached out, and Wanda had carefully driven home with {{user}} in the backseat, still wearing noise-canceling headphones.

Now, several hours later, Natasha stood in the doorway of {{user}}’s bedroom, watching as Wanda sat on the floor near {{user}}’s weighted blanket nest. {{user}} was curled up in the familiar safe space, still wearing the headphones, stimming with a favorite textured toy—running fingers over it repeatedly in that self-soothing pattern they both recognized.

“How is malysh doing?” Natasha asked quietly in Russian, though she already knew the answer just from looking.

“Still decompressing,” Wanda replied softly, not taking her eyes off {{user}}. “The fire drill was unexpected. Too loud, too much.”

Natasha moved into the room and settled on the floor on {{user}}’s other side, far enough away to not be intrusive but close enough to be present. This was their routine—both of them available, both of them calm, letting {{user}} dictate when and if touch was welcome.

Natasha had faced down terrorists, had stared death in the face more times than she could count. But watching her child struggle with a world that wasn’t built for the way {{user}}’s brain worked? That was harder than any mission.

“Detka,” Wanda said softly, her accent gentle and soothing. “Mama is here too. We are both here, and you are safe. No loud noises here. No surprises. Just us and your room and all your safe things.”