“Everyone is like that,” my mom said. Everyone is not.

I was twenty-two the first time I tried to explain. I told my mom I thought something was off with how my brain worked — that other people didn't seem to lose hours, bills, and friendships the way I did.

She didn't hesitate. “Everyone is like that, honey. You just have to try harder.”

I believed her. That's the part that cost me: I shelved the question for ten more years because the person who'd known me longest had voted no. Ten more years of white-knuckling, of blaming character instead of wiring.

Here's what I understand now that I couldn't then. When she said “everyone is like that,” she wasn't looking at everyone. She was looking in a mirror.

• She loses hours too. She calls it “how the day goes.”
• Her kitchen counters are archaeology, same as mine.
• She tried harder her whole life, it cost her, and she survived — so that became the family recipe.

Dismissal from family is often recognition wearing a disguise. If I'm not different, then neither is she — and she's fine, thank you very much.

For a while after my diagnosis, I wanted a verdict from her. An admission. A retroactive “you were right, I was wrong, and I'm sorry for the lost decade.” I'd re-litigate it at every gathering — my grades, my lost jobs, the doctor's notes — and she'd nod, change the subject, and I'd leave furious at both of us.

The verdict never came, and eventually I stopped needing it to. My diagnosis doesn't require a family vote; it stands on its own paperwork.

These days, when she says “everyone is like that,” I just say, “maybe some of us more than others,” and let it sit between us — gentle, and unresolved. It isn't the admission I wanted, but it's honest, and honest turns out to be enough to build on. Maybe one day she'll get curious about her own wiring. If she does, she'll find someone right here who knows exactly how terrifying that first question is — and who'll say “everyone is not” as gently as it can be said.