San Francisco Chronicle
October 21, 2007

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“I’m ready now.”I turned to look at my son Matthew, who is twenty-one and autistic. He stood in the doorway of the kitchen looking pleased with himself, wearing grass-stained socks and sandals and a clean striped shirt tucked into shorts cinched up high with a belt. His handsome face was clean, but there were several spots he had missed while shaving that morning. His sandy blonde hair was combed straight forward in a most unflattering Dumb and Dumber sort of way.