I have brought a bottle of sparkling wine with me and you take it from me and put it on ice. There's soft music playing in the background. You tell me...that dinner is almost ready and to have a seat. I sit in your nicely decorated living room and wait for you. You tell me to come to the table. I take out your chair and you sit and I slide it in for you. You dish me out a really nice noodle and chicken dish and I go and uncork the wine. I pour for both of us and we eat and talk.I can't get over. “Huh? What did I say?” I was genuinely confused, but I knew I had said the wrong thing. My cheeks were warming and I could feel my forehead prickle with sweat. “My daughter isn’t disabled,” she explained. “My daughter is Jessica. And Jessica has autism.” I frowned at her. I still wasn’t getting it, my embarrassment growing. Trying to mask the move by scratching a pretend itch at my temple, I discreetly wiped the sweat from my brow. “’Disabled’ is a label that defines someone.” Bree’s tone was. More

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