I shared about Felix’s good day, and I truly am grateful when he’s happy. But here’s the part people don’t see.

Felix has a total of six adult siblings. He has two grandmas. He has uncles. He has extended family on both sides. And yet when it comes to birthdays, holidays, or just ordinary life… he might as well be invisible.

Sure, someone might type “Happy Birthday 🎂🎈” under a Facebook post. But beyond that? No card. No small gift. No FaceTime call. No “Can we stop by and see him?” Not once. Not ever.

When Felix was born, Jarrod and I threw a “welcome home” party instead of a baby shower. No pressure for gifts — just come meet this incredible little human. Jarrod baked cupcakes. He made punch. We put out food platters and decorated the house. Two people showed up. They stayed about fifteen minutes. That was it.

For his first birthday, we threw a big party and people came. That was the last time.

Yes, we’ve been invited to a few family holidays over the years. Yes, Felix received gifts like the other kids. But that hasn’t even happened in a couple of years now.

What’s been hardest — and I know Jarrod feels this too — is the silence from our moms. Both have had health struggles, yes. But they were deeply involved with our older kids when they were little. They showed up then. They invested then. With Felix, it’s as if he exists only when something major happens and it lands on social media. Otherwise? Nothing.

Felix doesn’t even know his grandmas.

We’ve asked ourselves every possible question.

Is it because Felix is different and people don’t understand him? Then come learn. Spend time with him. Ask questions. Follow our lead. He’s not a mystery — he’s a child.

Is Jarrod’s family avoiding me because they never respected our marriage? Fine. Visit Felix on Jarrod’s weekends.

Is my family avoiding Jarrod? He has his own place. That excuse doesn’t hold.

At the end of the day, no one has taken the time to truly know this child. And that’s their loss. Because beneath the diagnosis, beneath whatever assumptions people make, Felix is one of the most loving, attentive, bright, cuddly, joyful souls you could ever meet. He is pure light. And so many people are missing it.

Honestly, it makes me question why we ever moved back to Iowa after things fell apart in North Carolina. I thought coming home would mean warmth. Support. Community. Instead, I’ve never felt more alone in the place I grew up.

So here it is.

I’m actively planning a move to California.

I’ve connected with a community of parents raising kids with Dup15q. They meet up. They support each other. Their kids grow up around other kids who understand them. The medical and therapeutic resources are stronger. There’s even the possibility that I could be paid as Felix’s full-time caregiver — which I already am, just without the paycheck. And yes, the weather doesn’t try to freeze your bones half the year. That’s a bonus.

Jarrod and I are making this decision together. It is joint. No one is dragging anyone anywhere. And frankly, I don’t care if people feel uncomfortable about it. This is about what’s best for Felix. Period.

We will have more community and more real support there than we have had here in five years.

And when we do leave — after the planning and logistics and all the work that comes with uprooting a life — I don’t want to hear how much we’ll be missed. We haven’t been visited. We haven’t been included. We haven’t been shown up for. Seventeen hundred miles won’t change a relationship that already doesn’t exist.

If this sounds harsh, so be it. Being overlooked for years by people who are supposed to love your child is harsh too.