After years of learning at home, my 10-year-old son, who has Down syndrome, was finally given the chance to go to a regular school. He was happier than I’d seen him in years. But just five days after he started, I got a phone call from the principal that left me shaken.

We walked out of the office in a daze. And there, in the front lobby, as if she’d been waiting, stood Celeste Rowan.

Cream blazer. Gold hummingbird brooch. A clipboard against her chest. The library volunteer badge clipped to her collar.

“Oh, Mrs. Carver. I heard. I’m so sorry.” Her voice was soft with concern. Her eyes slid over Milo like he was a stain on the carpet. “These things happen when a child isn’t ready for a regular environment. It’s nobody’s fault, really. But you might want to think about what’s best for everyone.”

I felt Milo go stiff in my arms.

Not upset. Stiff. Like a rabbit when a shadow passes overhead. He pulled his face away from my shoulder, looked at Celeste, and then turned his whole body away from her and hid behind Jonah’s legs.

He didn’t say a word all the way home.

In the car on the way home, Milo sat in the back seat with his backpack on his lap and stared out the window. Jonah drove. I sat in the back next to Milo, because he didn’t want to let go of my hand.