'My son is 7. I can't trust him to live in the same house as his little sister.'

I find Monday mornings the hardest. I face into the usual small talk at work about how the weekend was. "Oh, we didn’t do much. The kids just played around in the backyard," say my colleagues. "How was yours?", they ask.

I don't say I tried to navigate and scaffold another 15-minute play date for my seven-year-old son with his four-year-old sister. One that takes place in a neutral setting, and not at our home environments. One, according to my son's therapist, that requires us to coach and remind him beforehand about what good behaviour looks like.

"Keep your hands and feet to yourself," we say. "And use kind words. We'll give you one warning mate and if these family rules aren't followed, you'll need to sit on the park bench for 5 minutes to calm your motor down. You'll then get one more chance to play with your sister, who we know you crave so dearly to play with. But if it happens a second time mate, the play date is over."

Once we managed to last eight minutes. But for the moment, the indiscretions are almost immediate. He runs up to his sister, excited to see her. Then he insists on using the swing she’s already swinging on; he doesn't want the vacant swing next to it. And because she's four, and she's happy on her swing, he descends into a tirade of verbal and physical abuse. "She's a f**king idiot," he says. He hits and kicks her. And he is sent to the bench for his one warning, and calm down time.

Of course, it's not as simple as that. Cajoling him to the bench is an effort in itself. But he manages it; we manage it.

He comes back in for his next chance. But he's learnt nothing. The play date is over. I carry my four-year-old daughter to my car. She's now crying and screaming and struggling, because she wants to stay. But this is what we need to do, the therapist says, to keep her safe and teach him consequences.

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I drive my daughter home. To the home in which my son no longer lives. Because we can't keep her safe in his presence. He goes home with his dad, to his dad's house.

This is how we live in our family. Across two households. With the goal of bringing our kids together for 15-minute play dates on weekends. Our long-term goal is to have our kids living together again. But that feels far out of reach, with benchmarks as low as the ones we’re facing into right now.

This is autism. It's ADHD. And it's anxiety. It's neurodivergence. This is our version; my son's version.

We feel the looks and stares and judgments. At the swings. At the neutral settings in which we bring our kids together. We don't like the swearing either. The hitting. We can't stand it.

This is our reality. This is our everyday. The spare chairs around the family dining table each night. The requests, from my daughter to play with her brother, and from my son to play with his little sister.

The feeling of fret beforehand. The little voice in the backseat afterwards, that says, "Mummy, next time Will* asks for a play date and you say 'yes sure Will', can you say 'no'?".

My husband and I separated a couple of years ago. We knew of the ADHD diagnosis at that stage; not yet of the ASD diagnosis, nor the anxiety. Our goal is to bring our kids back together, and maybe move between our households week on, week off.

But until my son can manage his big feelings, we must all remain separated. Which means no respite, no downtime, no time off parenting for either of us, ever.

Next time you see this family at the playground, at the neutral setting, you can look. People always look. But can you also offer a smile. A gesture of warmth. Something that says we can see it's hard, and we know you're doing your best. You can truly never know the plight of one family to the next.

*Name changed.

Feature Image: Getty.