I Made My Son A Promise When He Was Born. 20 Years Later, I Was Devastated To Break It.

We pulled into the group home’s driveway and parked next to a white van. I sat there, hands gripping the wheel, staring at the brick house like it was a finish line I never wanted to cross.

Chris sat in the back seat, flipping between scenes in Shrek 2 on his Kindle. Calm. Unbothered. As if this were just another stop on one of our long drives.

But I knew what it was. This was the moment I was breaking a promise I’d made the day he was born.

And yet, here we were.

When Chris was born, he came into the world the wrong way – breech, as if signalling the unconventional path we’d travel together. Outside the delivery room, I held him in my hands and whispered the words I’d practiced for weeks.

“I’ll always be here for you. And no matter what happens, I’ll never, ever leave you.”

It was a vow spoken from the deepest place of love – an oath made by a parent who had once been a child left behind.

But promises, I’ve come to learn, are made in moments of certainty and tested in times of doubt.

Chris is on the autism spectrum. He doesn’t speak – not in words, anyway – but he’s always found ways to communicate. A tap on his head means “wash my hair”. Pushing his two fists together means he wants to go for a ride. When he’s content, he hums, low and steady. These were the silent sounds that filled our days.

For years, I honoured my word. Then everything unravelled.

One morning, I went to his room to get him dressed for school. His bed was empty. I looked around and asked my wife if she knew where he was. We both searched frantically. 

Then I heard her scream. The garage door was wide open. 

The nightmare I’d feared for years had happened. Chris alone outside. He’s a runner who’ll bolt straight into traffic, with no understanding of danger.

How long had he been gone? Minutes? Hours?

I told my wife to stay at home while I searched, then jumped in my car and called 911. I drove through nearby streets, checking all the familiar places he knew. I described him to dispatch: brown hair, on the autism spectrum, nonverbal, wearing a T-shirt and underwear.

Minutes later, they called back. He’d been found around midnight. He was at Child Protective Services.

He had walked a mile barefoot in the street until he reached the Winn-Dixie and started pulling on its locked doors. A stranger had followed him in his car, keeping him safe until the police arrived. 

A month later, my wife and I separated. We couldn’t handle it anymore – not together.

I became a single dad caregiver, juggling my job and his needs. Most evenings, we drove for hours – the constant movement calmed his anxiety.

My wife and I eventually divorced. I kept Chris’ daily routine going. That’s when the group home conversations started.

I resisted. How could I keep my promise and still consider a group home?

The professionals all said the same thing in different words: You can’t do this alone. What happens when you get older? He needs a trained staff. His physician, who’d known Chris since he was three, was even more direct: a group home could offer the structure, safety and supervision I couldn’t provide alone.

But Chris needs help with everything – bathing, dressing, brushing his teeth. Who’s going to help? Strangers who don’t care? I wasn’t ready to accept what I was being told. 

When I was six, my grandparents showed up unexpectedly and told me to say goodbye to my friends. I didn’t know I was leaving for good.

I ended up living with them. I never understood what had happened. Where was my mother? Why was I just left?

When I asked my grandmother, I was told not to ask questions or I’d lose my happy home. Those words became a constant threat – a reminder that my place in the world was conditional.

That abandonment shaped everything about how I saw parenting. I swore I’d be different. I wouldn’t leave my child the way I’d been left. I wouldn’t make promises I couldn’t keep.

So that morning, parked outside the group home, I wasn’t just a father making a difficult decision. I was that six-year-old boy again – swearing my child would never feel what I felt.

Eventually, I got out of the car. Chris walked in ahead of me, moving through the house methodically, peeking into rooms where residents watched TV or did crafts.

When he found his room, he paused at the threshold. Then he walked in like he’d lived there for years.

He went straight to his desk, flicked on the lamp, and adjusted it. Opened the closet, ran his fingers across the hangers, lifted a shirt to his face and inhaled its scent. He touched each toy on the shelf, adjusting them by millimetres only he could perceive. Then he sat on the bed and began to hum – that low, steady sound of his contentment.

I stood in the doorway, waiting for the breakdown. For fear. For resistance. None came. He was OK.

When it was time to say goodbye, I couldn’t bring myself to kiss him. And then I understood why. My parents never said goodbye. They just left. No explanation. No kiss. Just absence. 

And here I was, frozen – terrified that any gesture of farewell would make this real.

Chris looked at me with those big, steady eyes, as if he understood what I couldn’t say. He was ready in a way I hadn’t expected.

He knew I was leaving, and he was OK with that.

It was me who wasn’t.

As I drove away, I realised this wasn’t about breaking a promise. It was about evolving it. The promise I’d made wasn’t just about staying, it was about doing what was best for Chris, even when it was the hardest thing I could imagine.

They told me I couldn’t see him for 30 days. It was standard protocol to help him adjust. For a month, I lived on their text updates and photos: Chris eating at the table with others, sitting in the backyard, joining activities. These small glimpses of his new life reassured me that he was doing fine.

Still, I waited for the call – the one saying it wasn’t working, that I needed to come get him. But that call never came. 

Instead, I heard he was settling in. Thriving. Happy. And that’s all I ever wanted for Chris.

And I started to see that this was what he needed, and what I needed too. I’d spent so long as his caregiver, I forgot how to be anything else.

I was wrong to think I was the only one who could care for Chris. Wrong to think we couldn’t move forward.

Each morning, I read from Romans 12:12: “Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer.” I call it my daily dose of hope salad. It doesn’t always go down easy, but it’s what I need. And on that morning after leaving Chris, I ate every word of it. This was the moment to be joyful, not because I was happy, but because my hope held fast.

In the end, it wasn’t about leaving Chris. It was about finding the strength to let him go – and letting myself go, too. 

I visit him every week, and we often go out to dinner. On some Saturdays, we take long drives, just like we used to. He loves it when I roll down the windows so he can smell the air and feel the wind on his face.

I’m so proud of Chris. I’ll never truly leave him. I’ve learned that sometimes “never leaving” means having the courage to step back when they’re ready to step forward.

We will both find our way, even if it’s apart. And maybe that’s how we’ll really be together.

Steve Burcham is a creative director, writer and filmmaker. He has written and directed projects for numerous clients, including Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, The Dalí Museum, Tampa Museum of Art, The Breakers Palm Beach, John Deere, ExxonMobil, HSN, and others. Steve lives in St. Petersburg, Florida, and is currently writing his first novel. He can be reached at steveburcham.com.

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