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My son doesn’t worry about anything. If he does, he doesn’t show it.

He doesn’t have much to worry about when he’s with me anyway. Lucas knows that, even though he’s non-verbal, his dad understands him. I know what he needs, and in our confusing moments, I make it work.

The sight of him shuffling over with an empty cup is nothing new. In fact, he sees me as his personal drink filler. Upon seeing me enter his vicinity, my boy will literally pick up his screw-on-lid cup, shake it like a maraca, and hand it to me with an expression that says, “James, be a dear and fetch your boy some juice, will you?”

It’s always at the most inopportune times, and even though I might ask him to wait, I end up doing it almost immediately anyway. If life is a game of will, I lose every time against his cute little face.

Honestly, it makes me smile that he does that, even if the chore itself is cumbersome. The same can be said for when he tries to hand me his iPad while I’m driving to fix the connection, asks for more food just as I’m sitting down to eat my own, or dances in front of the television just as I’m about to win a video game—because, well, he wants me to see how happy he is listening to YouTube videos.

In every case, he wins.

Truth? I let him. I want him to win. As annoying as the requests can be, as inconvenient as his hugs can seem, and as abundant as his needs sometimes feel, I want him to come to me with all of them. That’s what I’m here for.

Even when I don’t understand him immediately, we make it work. He’ll walk over to me, eyes fixed on mine, and begin tapping his mouth.

Food? You want food?

I’ll show him food, and he’ll push it away before tapping his mouth again.

A kiss? You’re sweet. Here you go.

And that’s when he pushes my face away and I feel like a dope.

At this point, we’re both frustrated, and I’ll remind him that there’s an electronic way to ask. I take his communication tablet, hand it to him, and say:

Tell me.

And he does. What does he want? Nine times out of ten, it’s food.

I know what you’re thinking. But didn’t you offer him food?

Yes. Yes, I did. But he didn’t want that food. He wanted other food.

Welcome to my world.

**SCROLL DOWN FOR THIS WEEK’S EPISODE – EMBEDDED BELOW**

Despite it all, I am more than happy to oblige for one simple reason.

There was once a time when I thought none of this would ever be possible.

To a younger version of me, “non-verbal” meant silence. It was the end of any possible communication. Every time a professional used that phrase, it was like a dagger in my heart. I felt like I was being told that my son would never have a true relationship with me.

And I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Do we have the relationship I thought we would before he was born? No. The life I would have lived with a neurotypical boy filled with hopes, dreams, and questions didn’t happen.

What I got instead was the most unique bond a father could ever hope for.

Lucas has no words, but he also has no worries. That’s something I pride myself on. He never has to question whether or not his dad will know what he wants. That’s huge.

Any other big-picture worries aren’t on his list either. My son doesn’t ponder the future or where he will go one day. If he does, he doesn’t communicate it or show it in his personality. My guy is tranquilo with a capital T. Tomorrow isn’t a concern. I’m not even sure he understands the concept of the past or future.

Lucas lives in the moment harder than anyone I’ve ever met.

Me? I’m the one who worries about that stuff. Where will his future take him? Will he ever pick up some of the life skills we’ve been pushing since infancy? Can he find his place in the world? Does he want to? Does it matter?

These are the things I think about. I do it for him so he doesn’t have to. Actually, I do it for him because it doesn’t seem like he can.

And that’s something I envy. Big time.

I’ve said before that Lucas doesn’t “suffer” from autism. I stand by that. From his perspective, Lucas doesn’t have any form of suffering from being on the autism spectrum.

Rather, this is who he is. It’s all he’s ever known. He lives every day like this, and there’s nothing miserable, lonely, or hurtful about it. My son lives his truth more than anyone. He’s happy and he’s cared for.

The worries are all mine and because of his approach to life, they’re easier for me to process. It’s hard to think too long about what tomorrow will bring when a giggling little guy is handing you a disconnected iPad at 40 miles per hour.

He knows I have his back in every sense of the word. Whether it’s a cup of water or lifelong plans for adult care, my son is on my mind always.

Deep down, I know he knows that too.