The Glass Child

We have two sons, just 14 months apart in age.

When our oldest son, “M,” was six months old, I found out I was pregnant again. We had struggled for years to conceive our first child, so I never expected that we would have another. When I learned I was pregnant, my head immediately began to swirl with questions.

Had I given M enough of me before welcoming his little brother, “O,” into the world?

Had I given him enough of my time, attention, love, and experiences?

That question stayed with me.

Ten years later, I find myself asking a very different version of the same question.

Am I giving O enough?

Enough of my time. Enough of my attention. Enough encouragement. Enough opportunities. Enough of the childhood experiences I imagined he would have.

Because Autism influences nearly every part of our day-to-day life.

What I imagined parenthood would look like is very different from our reality. And, in many ways, it has been this way for a very long time.

According to the Cleveland Clinic, a “glass child” is the sibling of someone with special needs—often perceived

as the easy one while carrying burdens that aren't always visible.

That description immediately resonated with me.

At just 10 years old, O is incredibly mature, wise beyond his years, and responsible for his age. From the time he was around three years old, he became his brother’s protector.

That role has changed as the boys have grown.

Today, O is sometimes more like another parent to M.

He knows how and when to redirect M when he is spiraling. He coaches him through situations, helps him understand how he should respond, and often knows what M needs before anyone else does.

And remarkably, O rarely complains about the role he has taken on.

But that doesn't mean it doesn't weigh on him.

As his mother, one of the things that breaks my heart is knowing that O has missed out on some of the experiences I imagined for him as a younger brother.

He hasn't always had the opportunity to simply look up to his big brother.

To ask M for advice.

To follow in his footsteps.

To see his older brother as his role model rather than someone he needs to protect, guide, or help.

I never want O to feel overlooked.

I never want him to feel that he is less important because M's needs can be almost all-consuming on any given day.

But I also know that there have been times when he has felt exactly that way.

As the caregiver of a child with additional needs, I have poured countless hours into researching, advocating,

seeking medical interventions, attending appointments, participating in school meetings, navigating systems, and searching for resources.

Those things are necessary.

But I also have to remind myself that O is growing up too.

His childhood is happening alongside all of this.

And he deserves to have his own childhood, his own experiences, his own space to be a kid—and the freedom to simply be M's younger brother.

I've had very honest conversations with O about this.

I tell him that I know having a brother with additional needs isn't always easy.

It's okay to feel lonely.

It's okay to be frustrated.

It's okay to be angry.

It's okay to feel disappointed.

It's okay to wish things were different sometimes.

And it's okay to have those feelings without feeling guilty for having them.

I have those feelings too.

One of the most important things I've learned is that we have to talk about the hard things. We have to create a safe space for our children to be honest about what they are experiencing, without fear of hurting us or making us feel guilty.

I remind O that although a significant amount of my time may be dedicated to meeting his brother's needs, he is no less important, no less valued, and no less loved.

And I try to show him that—not just tell him.

I intentionally make time that belongs only to O.

Sometimes it is something incredibly simple, like playing a card game or going out for a meal together.

Other times, it is something bigger, like traveling to meet up with his best friend from our last duty station. That trip has become one of our favorite traditions and an annual experience since relocating to Alabama.

Those moments matter.

Not because they make up for everything.

But because they remind both of us that his life matters, too.

To the families raising a “glass child,” I see you.

I see the guilt.

I see the worry that you're not giving your other child enough.

I see the exhaustion of trying to advocate for one child while making sure another doesn't quietly get lost in the

process.

And to the siblings themselves—especially those who have learned to be responsible, protective, understanding, and mature far beyond their years—I hope you know this:

You matter. Your feelings matter. Your childhood matters. And you deserve to be seen, heard, supported, and loved for exactly who you are—not simply for how well you handle everything around you.

To all the families with “glass children”:

I see you.