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.

“No,” I said.

“Because at 11:05, before I’d called anyone, before the police had even finished counting the money, Mrs. Rowan phoned my cell. She asked whether ‘the situation in Ms. Tran’s class’ had been handled.” He exhaled. “Nobody outside my office knew about it yet, Mrs. Carver. Not one person. I’ve been asking myself all weekend how she did.”

The kitchen went very quiet.

“I can’t accuse a PTA president of anything based on a phone call,” he said. “But I’m not voting for that petition. I wanted you to know that.”

“She’s using him,” he said. “She’s using a ten-year-old to kill a program she never wanted.”

On Sunday afternoon, our doorbell rang. It was Felix, holding his mother’s hand. He was small and freckled and looked like he’d been crying too.

“Felix wanted to talk to Milo,” his mother said awkwardly. “He hasn’t slept.”

Felix walked right up to Milo in the living room.