The six-month sentence
When Lucas was diagnosed at three years and ten months, Sarah felt two things at once: relief that the thing she had quietly worried about for a year finally had a name, and a sudden, pressing urgency to do something about it. Her pediatrician handed her a printout and the name of an ABA provider down the highway, and she called from the clinic parking lot before she had even buckled Lucas into his car seat.
The voice on the other end was kind. It was also final. The waitlist, they explained, was about six months — maybe a little less if a slot opened, maybe a little more. They would call her. Sarah wrote the date on the back of the printout and did the math on what six months meant for a four-year-old: half a year of the window everyone kept telling her was so important.
She thanked them, hung up, and sat in the parking lot a little longer than she needed to. Then she did the thing that, months later, she would tell other parents to do: she kept calling.
Finding us
Sarah found House of Hearts in a Denver parent group on Facebook — a comment under someone else's question, three replies deep. She almost scrolled past it. Her first call with us was on a Wednesday afternoon, and it lasted eleven minutes, most of which was her talking and us listening.
By Friday, her benefits were verified through Colorado Medicaid. There was no portal to log into, no form to chase down — her care coordinator texted her a screenshot of what was covered and called to walk her through it. By the following Monday, that same coordinator had matched Lucas with a BCBA named Maria who lived twenty minutes away.
Sarah said the moment it became real was not the verification or the match. It was a Tuesday text that read, 'How does Lucas do with new people in the house? Want to make sure Maria plans the first visit around him.' Someone, she realized, was already thinking about her son specifically.
I expected paperwork. I got a person who knew my son's name on day three.
Day nine
Maria arrived on the ninth day after that first phone call. Lucas took one look at the new adult in his living room and disappeared behind the couch. Sarah started to apologize and move to coax him out. Maria, already lowering herself onto the floor, gently waved her off.
For ten minutes, Maria did not ask Lucas to come out. She sat on the rug, rolled a car back and forth, and narrated quietly to no one in particular. Twenty minutes in, still nothing. Sarah hovered in the kitchen doorway, certain it was not working.
Then a small face appeared at the end of the couch. Maria did not lunge or cheer; she just rolled the car a little closer and kept narrating. By the end of the hour, Lucas had crept all the way out and put a toy car directly into Maria's open hand. Sarah went into the kitchen and cried, quietly, so she would not interrupt.
Where we are now
Six months later, Lucas is using three-word phrases. He asks for what he wants instead of melting down when no one can guess. He has opinions about which car is his favorite and tells you about them. Maria is still his RBT, and the calm-down corner they built together in his bedroom is, in Sarah's words, 'the most-used piece of furniture in the house.'
When other parents ask Sarah for advice now, she gives them one sentence: 'If someone tells you to wait six months, keep calling.' She is not against the provider who gave her that timeline — they were honest about their capacity. She just wishes someone had told her, that afternoon in the parking lot, that six months was not the only number available to her.