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Most would not smile in my position.

 I sat across from the  psychiatrist, holding my wife's hand as our two-year-old son played  inattentively in the background. 

"The severity of your son's autism will  likely prevent him from ever being independent. It is very possible  that he will never speak or have friends. The comorbidity of mental  retardation will compound these challenges." The psychiatrist paused and  examined our expressions. 

My wife clenched my hand a little tighter,  but she, too, smiled because we knew firsthand that the diagnosis was  meaningless:

 When I was three, a psychologist told my parents the same  thing about me.