We had decided even before he was born to let him keep his hope for as long as we could. But kids grow up too fast, learn so much so quickly no matter what you do and what risks you take by doing it. He wasn't yet five years old when we heard him crying softly on his bed with a grief he had no words for but we understood too well. That night we gave him the pill we had had ready for years. He took it, I think, knowing in a way what it was. We sat with him while he fell asleep as the pill touched his brain with disrespectful precision, a synapse here and a gene there.
He would wake up as smart as always, our bright beautiful boy. Able to face a future however bleak with calm equanimity.
Because we had burned the alternative away.
It was a painful thing to do. It was a joy to see him wake up smiling.
His mother was smiling and crying — happy and sad and sad and sad — and we tried to comfort her knowing that we couldn't. She had never taken the pill. One day, perhaps, I'd finally convince her. And if not - but I didn't worry.