“P.S. Tell Cutie Pie we love them no matter what.”
The Note Meant for Cutie Pie
“P.S. Tell Cutie Pie we love them no matter what.”
I think my 5th grade teacher and her assistant had me pegged for being autistic.
Back then, I was in special education. There was another kid named Caleb in the class too, but I was the one everyone called Cutie Pie—because my initials were C.P. I still remember how it felt to be seen that way. Sweet. Safe. Special.
One day, they sent a note home with me in my report card folder. I opened it before giving it to my mom. It read:
“Dear parent or guardian of Caleb,
We believe that they may have autism and should be seen by a psychologist to be assessed. If you need help, feel free to contact the school counselor.
P.S. Tell Cutie Pie we love them no matter what.”
When I gave it to my mom, she brushed it off. Said the school must’ve mixed things up—that the note was probably meant for the other Caleb.
But I knew better. That last line? That was for me. No one else in the class was called Cutie Pie.
That note has stayed in the back of my mind for years. I didn’t know it then, but that was probably the first time someone saw the real me—before I even knew what autism was. My teacher saw it. My teacher saw me. And they loved me anyway. Maybe even because of it.
I wonder what might’ve been different if my mom had taken that note seriously. If I had gotten support earlier. If someone had listened to what the teachers already knew.
But here’s the truth:
Even if that note got ignored, I didn’t ignore it. I remembered. I held onto it. I carried it all the way to this moment—where I now stand fully knowing I’m autistic and learning to love the parts of me that were once misunderstood.
And to that teacher, wherever you are now...
Thank you. Thank you for trying. Thank you for calling me Cutie Pie. Thank you for seeing something special in me when I felt invisible to the world.
I see me now, too.
“Sometimes the quietest notes carry the loudest truths.” – Caleb
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