I know that you felt uncomfortable in the music school waiting room last Wednesday night. I saw you shifting in your seat, like you would rather have been anywhere else in the world, but where you were. When I started talking to my friend in the wheelchair, I could see you staring at me. When the two young women with special needs starting chatting with each other, I watched you look at them and then turn away. I'm guessing you felt out of place when the three moms of the adult children with special needs started chatting happily amongst themselves at the table next to you. When I was waiting for Dominic's teacher to come and take him back for music therapy, I could tell by your expression that you were trying to guess what his "disability" was. When I saw your son coming down the hallway from his music lesson, I watched you bolt of your chair and rush your son out the door. When Dominic and I were walking to our car and you and your son were getting on your bikes to ride home, I tried to make eye contact with you, but you kept looking down. I really wish you would have looked up, so Dominic and I could have said hi to you. I hope to see you again at the music school. I could tell you that we are not so different, you and I. We are the same. We both have sons that play music.