I sat on the living room floor of my sister’s apartment. In my arms, my two-month-old niece fluttered her eyes open and shut and I inwardly cringed - I was exhausted and really hoped I did not have to rock her to sleep all over again before my sister came home. Next to me, my nephew kneeled over a binder of organized Pokemon cards. Animatedly, he talked of the different attacks and defenses while pointing out to me which ones he had, and with a heavy sigh, reminded me which ones he didn't. All of sudden, I felt crushed by so much sadness and hopelessness that I struggled to breathe. I had to take a minute to stop myself from crying and figure out why the heck I was so sad in the first place. My favorite place on earth was with my new niece, and my nephew was being very well-behaved compared to his normal self. All was well and easy. It wasn't until later that I realized why my heart had broke sitting on the living room floor. It was aching for the little boy that the world did not, and might never, know.

My nephew is an eight-year-old that can throw a tantrum to rival your toddler’s worst outburst. If a rule doesn't make sense to him, he simply doesn't follow it. When he's angry, he hits and kicks without apology, because it makes sense to him and his emotions at the time. He has no empty level - it's 24 hours, 7 days a week. He’s been diagnosed with severe ADHD, although there may be more. The point is that he’s a problem child. To his teachers, to the other people in the grocery store, and to our own family. And for a long time I ducked my head in shame, or made uncomfortable jokes to diffuse the situation. I apologized. I felt embarrassed by it and felt I understood completely where these people were coming from. Believe me. No adult with a screaming child with them in public doesn't understand how annoyed and frustrated you are.

But this is about my moment with my nephew sitting on the living room floor. In the middle of talking about his Pokemon (I had to cut him off - he would talk all night if he could) I told him it was time to get ready for bed. I expected to have to tell him a few times, but he was having a very good night. Calmly, he put away his binder full of cards, planted a kiss on his baby sister's forehead, and asked me if I would play a game of chess with him next time I came to babysit. Being the horrible babysitter and chess nerd I am, I told him he could stay up a little longer so we could play right away since he was listening so well. His face lit up in a way that brightened the entire room. As we talked strategy and more Pokemon, I saw something on his face. It was excitement. It was passion. It was the thrill of being alive. It was the tiniest moment, just him being able to stay up later than usual, that made the entire world seem magical to him. He talked with such passion about what he loved and I felt a sadness that still renders me somewhat speechless. I felt the misery of heartbreak for the little boy that the world would never take the time to know beyond tantrums and outbursts.

And he is magnificent. He is more than yelling and misunderstandings. He is a gifted human being who could read chapter books before he started the first grade and who completely schools me in chess even when I'm playing my best game. He is the one who, without complaint, sits in the backseat and continually puts the pacifier back in his baby sister’s mouth every time she spits it out, which is about every 15 seconds. He stands up and cheers when he gets a good word in Scrabble and he claims when he turns 18, he’s going to change his name to Sonic the Hedgehog. Who he is when he is mad, or upset, or misunderstand is no bigger a part of him than who he is when he is elated, bubbly, and loving. He is a layered, complex human being who is loved, respected, and admired.

So, to the woman who apologized while escorting her screaming son out of the line and leaving her groceries behind, don't. I won't accept your apology. You have nothing to be sorry for. I'm sure that boy is magnificent.

I'm sure he's not what I would expect.