Oy, I thought, he’s certainly not picking up the parshah.

That was the first time it occurred to me that Zevi might have a learning issue.

The next year, Zevi’s morah invited the mothers of the kids in his class to a Chanukah performance. I gave a few mothers a ride to the preschool, and on the way there, they were gushing about what a great teacher Morah Tzivi is and how their four-year-olds come home from preschool knowing more about parshah and Yamim Tovim than their older siblings.

Hearing this rang another alarm bell in my mind. My Zevi never told us anything his morah had taught.

At the performance, all the kids were enthusiastically involved — except Zevi, who did nothing. Watching him sit at the side while all the other boys sang and danced broke my heart.

That night, I called the morah and asked, “Do you think Zevi should be evaluated?”

“Yes,” she said.

I scheduled a comprehensive evaluation for Zevi, and over the course of three days he underwent about 12 hours of educational and psychological testing. Zevi wasn’t shy, and he cooperated happily with all the professionals who were “playing” with him.

One of these therapists mentioned to me that Zevi had an unusual ability to change the subject. “When I ask him a question and he doesn’t know the answer, he starts telling me that he loves the crayons we have here, or that it’s such a nice day outside. It’s a coping technique that helps him manage in school and mask whatever difficulties he’s experiencing.”

Several weeks after the evaluation, I got a call from the center where the testing was done. “We have the results of your son’s tests,” the woman on the phone informed me.

“Great,” I replied. “When can I come down to meet with you and hear the results?”

“Oh, there’s no need for you to come down,” she said. “I can tell you the results right now. Your son is mentally retarded. He’s going to be nine years old, mentally, for the rest of his life.”

Stunned, all I could croak in response was, “You really should have told me to come down to your office with my husband and broken this news to me in a nicer way.”

After hanging up the phone, I cried the entire day. When my husband, Elimelech, came home from work that evening, he found me red-eyed, with practically every capillary in my face busted.

He was not nearly as shaken by the devastating news, however. “It’s not true,” he said flatly. “They’re wrong. We’re going to get to the bottom of this.”

This sentiment was bolstered by a special-ed expert in our community with whom I consulted shortly afterward. “You’re going to prove them wrong,” she declared.

I took her words as my marching orders — orders that I followed faithfully for over a decade.

We enrolled Zevi in a special-ed school, where he was one of the higher-functioning kids in his class. By age ten, he had learned to read and write both Hebrew and English on a third-grade level. Our goal was to mainstream Zevi, and he shared this goal. “Next year I’m going to a regular school,” he always said. He was embarrassed to be in a special-ed school, and from the time he was little, he refused to tell people which school he attended.

We never did manage to mainstream Zevi, however. High-functioning as he was, he wasn’t capable of learning in a regular class, even with intensive remediation. Yet he was too advanced to be in a program for mentally retarded children, so he fell through the cracks to a large extent, never finding his place in the special-ed system.

The most we could do was mainstream Zevi during lunchtime, from the time he was in fifth grade, so that he could eat with regular boys. I hoped that even if he couldn’t keep up with his non-learning-disabled peers academically, at least he could integrate with them socially.

That was not to be, however. While Zevi did possess good social skills — he was polite, he maintained eye contact, he knew how to make pleasant conversation — he was missing certain nuances essential to social interaction. Strictly black-and-white, he took people’s words very literally, completely missing subtleties like hyperbole, sarcasm, or jest. Nor did he understand the concept of mood: Often, when someone expressed even momentary frustration or impatience, he would take that as a sign the person was angry with him or didn’t like him, and would cross that person off his list of friends.

Zevi’s initial diagnosis turned out to be remarkably accurate. He never did surpass the intelligence level of a nine-year-old, despite my vigorous efforts to help him advance.

Determined to prove the diagnosis wrong, however, I pushed him to go to Pirchei groups every Shabbos when he was growing up. But he hated Pirchei. He couldn’t play the games or sing the songs, and he came home miserable every week. I tried getting him to ride a bike, but he was too scared. I tried getting him to play sports with the other boys on the block, but he wasn’t interested. I tried getting him to do crafts, but he refused. I felt like a failure because I couldn’t get him to enjoy the things other boys his age enjoyed. But still, I kept pushing him to prove his diagnosis wrong.

I used to take all my kids to the local library on Friday to borrow books for Shabbos, and I would insist that Zevi come along. He never wanted to come, though, and once there he wouldn’t take out any books. He was content just sitting on the couch and watching the rest of the family interacting or doing their own thing. He watched his brothers fight, he watched me do laundry, he watched through the window as cars drove by and people walked past.

Zevi’s dream, from the time he became a teenager, was to attend the same sleepaway camp his older brothers had attended. Each year, I would call up the director of the camp and implore him to allow Zevi to join a regular bunk for at least part of the summer. “If he can come for even a week he’d be happy,” I begged. But the answer was always no, and Zevi was stuck attending a day camp for boys with special needs, which he hated.

This pattern repeated itself from the time Zevi was 13 until he was 17. That year, after the summer came and went, he fell into a deep depression. He stayed in his room, refused to go to shul, slept more than usual, and wanted to wear the same oversized shirt every day instead of dressing in appropriate clothing. His dream was shattered, and so was he. It was the first time I had ever seen him so down.

Concerned, Elimelech and I went to speak to the staff psychologist at Zevi’s special-ed school.

“Zevi doesn’t know on his own how and what to feel,” the psychologist explained. “His feelings about himself reflect the way you feel about him, and he senses very clearly that he’s not the son you want. All his life, you’ve been fighting with him to be someone he’s not, so he never learned to accept himself.”

To Zevi, he explained, going to camp would have been the affirmation of normalcy he craved — his last chance to prove himself to us. Now, he had lost that hope, and with it the vision of one day becoming a “normal boy” — the boy his parents wanted.

“The two of you have to practice saying to each other ‘Zevi is mentally retarded,’ ” the psychologist advised Elimelech and me. “Let the words come out of your mouth again and again until you internalize and accept them. When you accept who Zevi is, so will he.”

It was the first time anyone had ever said anything like that to us, but we accepted the advice immediately. We were desperate; we needed to change something.

Elimelech and I practiced saying the words “Zevi is mentally retarded” and accepting that reality, but although we eventually came to terms with it, Zevi didn’t. The damage wrought by a decade of fighting Zevi’s diagnosis could not be easily erased from his psyche, and by the time he reached adulthood, he was plagued by anxiety and depressive tendencies, for which he required medication and ongoing therapy.

Zevi was terrified that people would discover his secret: that he has special needs and is not “normal.” This fear prevented him from joining other boys with special needs for socialization and recreation, since he felt that if he were seen with them, people would know that he had “problems.” He therefore chose to remain alone or with our family on Shabbos and Sunday instead of getting together with his peers. Due to this fear, he did not develop friendships with anyone in his age group.

After graduating from his special-ed school, Zevi completely disassociated himself from his classmates, maintaining no ties with any of them.

That same pattern repeated itself with shidduchim. Zevi wanted to be like everyone else, so when he reached shidduch age, he expected to get married. Elimelech and I were highly doubtful whether he could sustain a marriage, and even more worried about him having children. But we needn’t have worried. Over the years, Zevi has dated several girls, but he has promptly nixed all of them due to the very issues that made them suitable for him. No regular girl would consider dating him, and he won’t consider marrying someone on his level of mental function because he doesn’t view himself as mentally challenged.

Thankfully, Zevi has a great job stocking shelves in a grocery store. He began working there when he was 19, as part of his special-ed school’s vocational training program. Today, at 36, he’s still working there. All the workers in the store love him, and many of the regular customers schmooze with him. The people in the store — owners, workers, and customers alike — have become his chevreh, the closest thing he has to friends. They’re the ones who greet him excitedly and strike up a conversation when they meet him on the street, in shul, or at a simchah.

Beyond his job and his work “friends,” Elimelech and I remained Zevi’s only social circle, once our other kids got older and left the house. So attached was Zevi to us, in fact, that people would call us “the threesome.” Wherever we went, he came along. He never went away himself for Shabbos, and neither did we. I couldn’t remember the last time Elimelech and I had a day alone, without Zevi. We didn’t see him as a burden; his presence was just a fact of life.

Two years ago, I turned 63. Shortly after my birthday, my married daughter Liba, four years Zevi’s senior, came to visit with her husband, Meir, and they sat down with Elimelech and me and dropped a bombshell.

“Zevi has to move out of the house,” Liba said. “We’re not going to allow you to be in your eighties and still have him living with you. It’s not fair to any of you. He deserves his own life, and so do you.”

That was the first time anyone had suggested to us that Zevi move out. Elimelech and I had certainly never entertained the idea; we didn’t think he was capable of living on his own, and he was too high-functioning to be in a group home for mentally challenged adults.

In the years since the school psychologist had told us to work on accepting Zevi’s mental retardation, rather than fight it, we had eased up considerably on trying to “normalize” him. Instead of continuing to shield him, we began to be more honest with him about his limitations. We arranged for workers to take him out for recreation and explained to him that these people were being paid to accompany him. We also made it clear to him that if he wants to get married, he will have to take a girl who is high-functioning, but with some special needs. And we encouraged him to be alone for longer stretches of time and to make his own plans for evenings and Sundays.

Making peace with his limitations and giving up on trying to turn him into someone he wasn’t had trained us to work with the reality instead of clinging to what we wished the reality would be.

That’s why, when Liba and Meir sat us down and told us it was time for Zevi to move out, we didn’t bristle at their presumptuousness, or flatly veto the suggestion. We recognized that they were speaking out of love and concern and that there was truth in what they were saying.

“You know what?” I said. “You’re right.”

It was time for Zevi to have his own life — and for Elimelech and me to have ours.

Now the question was how to go about making that happen.

We consulted with professionals, and they thought independent living would be good for Zevi. When I presented the idea to Zevi, his response was, “Why do you want to get rid of me?”

“We don’t,” I replied calmly. “Abba and I are getting older, and we want you to be in a place where you can meet people your age. Why should you be stuck living with two old people? Wouldn’t you rather have a roommate to talk to?”

Zevi thought about it. “Okay,” he finally said.

“Strike while the iron is hot and find him a place immediately,” Zevi’s therapist advised me. “Otherwise he’ll change his mind.”

Sensing that Zevi was still troubled, I spent an entire Shabbos trying to figure out what was bothering him. After much talk, he finally confided that he was not comfortable having a roommate.

“I want my own apartment,” he said.

“What do you mean?” I asked. “Won’t it be hard for you to live alone?”

“It will be harder for me to get used to living with another person,” he insisted. Almost in the same sentence, he added, “But I still want to get married.”

I tried pointing out that marriage would be even more challenging than having a roommate, but I got nowhere with that logic, so I gave up. If Zevi wanted to live alone, so be it. After pushing him, for years, to go to Pirchei and play with the boys in the neighborhood, I had learned the hard way that you can’t impose a social life on someone. We were actually very proud of Zevi for being able to verbalize his feelings.

Scratching the roommate idea, Elimelech and I began to search for a suitable apartment for Zevi. When we found something that seemed right, we signed a contract immediately, not leaving ourselves any time for second thoughts.

Initially, I was afraid Zevi’s move would be traumatic for all of us. I had nightmarish visions of a moving truck carting away all his belongings while we bid Zevi a tearful farewell as he set off into a lonely, homesick existence. But it didn’t happen that way at all.

Over the next couple of months, I helped Zevi pack up his stuff and move it into his apartment, a few boxes at a time. I took him shopping for furniture — a bed, a table, chairs, a couch — and we furnished the apartment, little by little, until it looked homey and inviting. One day, we picked out a new set of linen, and as I slipped those new linens onto the bed in Zevi’s apartment, I turned to him and asked, “Would you want to sleep here tonight?”

“Should I try it?” he asked.

“I’d be very proud if you did,” I replied.

“So I will,” he said.

As I left, I assured him that his room at home would stay the same — his bed would still be his, he would still have his own closet with some of his clothing, and his drawers would be untouched. “You’ll always have a place in our house,” I told him.

He sounded a bit choked up when I left, but when he called the next morning, he was delighted.

“I did it!” he announced. “It was great!”

After that, we made him a small housewarming party, inviting the family and a few of our neighbors to his apartment. They oohed and aahed over how comfortable the apartment is, while Zevi beamed with pride.

Since then, Zevi has spent most weeknights in his apartment. Only once did he call, sounding very sad, to tell me he felt lonely.

“You were lonely sometimes at home, too,” I reminded him. “Let’s think what you did at home when you felt that way.”

We brainstormed together, and in the end, he turned on music, took an early shower, and prepared his lunch and clothing for the next day.

With the help of a local frum agency that helps people with special needs, we applied for government funding to help Zevi live independently. Once we were approved, the agency and I worked together to hire people who could coach him in acquiring daily living skills.

Thanks to the people we hired, Zevi has become quite proficient in the kitchen, and recently, he’s been hosting Elimelech and me for supper periodically. He still comes home for Shabbos most weeks, but not long ago, Elimelech and I went to him for Shabbos. It was so nice! Maybe one day, he’ll sleep in his apartment on Shabbos and go to his neighbors for meals. I’m still working on finding ways to expand his support system, so he can enhance his life and become independent of Elimelech and me.

We had hoped that living in an apartment building would pave the way for Zevi to meet people, be invited for Shabbos meals, and maybe be hired by people for small home repairs. He’s great with his hands, and he’d be delighted to unclog people’s drains or fix their broken furniture, for a fraction of the price a regular handyman would take. But while he has adjusted beautifully to independent living, he hasn’t yet taken the initiative to get to know his neighbors and find productive ways to fill his time.

I’m trying to help him by driving him to minyanim in the neighborhood and looking out for recreational opportunities for him, but I know better than to push him. Maybe he’ll manage to create a social life for himself, and maybe not. While I want him to have a vibrant social life, I have to accept that he will create the social life that he wants, on his terms.

Over the years, I’ve participated in many events and shabbatons for parents of children with special needs. As a veteran participant, I’ve been asked to speak at some of these events and give chizuk to the younger mothers. At a recent Friday night session, my message to the mothers was: When your child receives a diagnosis, the most important thing you can do is accept it. I explained that while parents must advocate for their child and do their utmost to help the child progress, those efforts have to be made in the context of the parents’ making peace with the situation.

“By resisting my son’s diagnosis instead of accepting it,” I said, “I made my life much more difficult than it had to be. I feel that if I had accepted Zevi for who he was, my life, and his, would have been a lot calmer. All his life, I felt like I was fighting a battle I couldn’t win. In my zeal to prove his diagnosis wrong, I pushed him to do things he wasn’t capable of, and in the process, I robbed him of something precious: a sense of belonging.”

I don’t allow myself to dwell on these regrets, however. In raising Zevi, I did the best I could with the tools and knowledge I had, and while I may be wiser today, I don’t blame myself, or even the special-ed expert who told me “prove them wrong,” for pushing Zevi to be someone he wasn’t. I understand that this was a process I had to go through, and I don’t judge myself for past decisions. Instead, I recognize that the advice I received when he was four years old was min haShamayim, as was the fact that no one ever spoke to me about acceptance until he was 17.

Part of learning to accept Zevi has been learning to accept myself, along with the mistakes I’ve made. What happened in the past was Hashem’s will, and what He wants from me today is to do better.

I don’t have to prove anyone wrong, because whatever Hashem does is right. All I have to do is grow and have faith that Hashem will continue to give me the strength to continue on this journey.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 742)