No Child Should Have to Eat Alone

(A reflection by Cathi Rae)

My sister called me after leaving City Council. She told me about a fifteen-year-old baby named Emmanuel, a child with autism who had wandered away from his mother, been found by police, and somehow ended up in federal custody. The more she spoke, the more my chest tightened. I couldn’t stop picturing him... Scared, confused, alone in a place that didn’t understand him.

I hung up the phone and called Andreza, the founder of Autism Moms of Houston. I’ve been part of that community for a while now, and we share one heartbeat when it comes to our kids. The moms were already planning to attend the FIEL vigil for Emmanuel to show up for his mother and let her know she wasn’t alone. That mattered. But I also knew the news cycle moves fast, and pain this deep can be forgotten even faster.

So I said, we need more than one night. We need to be there every night. Because while the world scrolls and moves on, there’s still a baby waking up in a place that isn’t his home. A baby who can’t make sense of where his mom went or why she hasn’t come to get him.

As a mother of a child with autism, that thought breaks me. My son, Noah, is eight, but developmentally he’s closer to five. If he were in Emmanuel’s shoes, he would think he did something wrong. He’d believe I sent him away. Every time he called and I didn’t come, he’d lose a little more trust in the world.

Children on the spectrum cling to the people and places that help them feel safe. They hold onto routine like a lifeline. When they’re separated from that — when the lights are too bright, the sounds too sharp, the air too strange — their fear doesn’t fade with time. It multiplies. And what Emmanuel is living right now isn’t just confusing; it’s traumatic.

That’s what moved me from advocate to what I can only call an accidental activist. I didn’t plan to stand in a park or send press releases. I didn’t plan to lead nightly gatherings. But when you see injustice this close to home, and you’ve lived the fear of what it could mean for your own child, you can’t stay quiet.

This system — local, state, and federal — is failing families like ours every day. From the lack of training to the lack of compassion, the gap is wide. We only seem to matter when it’s politically convenient. But autism isn’t a talking point. It’s real life. It’s our life. And when a child like Emmanuel ends up in custody instead of care, that’s not a clerical error, that’s a moral failure.

When The FAM heard what I was doing, they didn’t hesitate. They rallied behind me because that’s what we do — when one of us shows up, we all stand behind them. What matters to me matters to them, even if it’s just in spirit.

The same goes for Autism Moms of Houston. We’re mothers with full plates, tired hearts, and kids who depend on routine — but we carry each other’s burdens however we can. So even on the nights when it’s just me, or me and my dog sitting on the bench... I show up. Once there were three of us. 

Most nights, it’s quiet. People drive by, some honk, a few stop, others just stare. But I’m there, because Emmanuel is still there.

Some folks are scared to come. I understand that. There have been too many stories of people being “wrangled first and questioned later” — like Emmanuel himself. And some just don’t see why it matters. They ask where his mother is, or why FIEL isn’t out there every night. But that’s not my concern.

I’m there because a child is still sleeping in the wrong place. I’m there until he’s somewhere that can meet his needs — somewhere that understands how much he still needs his mom.

Every evening, I show up, sometimes with food, sometimes just to sit in silence, and always with the support of Jesus. It’s not about making noise; it’s about making sure Emmanuel is not forgotten. It’s about love showing up in the simplest way possible, at the dinner hour, when family chatter should fill the air and a child should know he belongs to someone.

That’s what’s missing here. Not just policy or process... family. Compassion. The understanding that safety isn’t just walls and supervision; it’s presence and connection.

So I’ll keep showing up.
For Emmanuel.
For his mother.
For every child who’s been overlooked by a system that calls them “cases” instead of kids.

Because there’s power in being seen.
And family, chosen or born, means we don’t leave anyone to face the world alone.

TTFN,
Cathi Rae