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.

Thursday. 12:15 p.m. Second egg. I felt it on the bus. It is a phone. I think it is not ours. I feel bad in my stomach. I did not tell.

My hands were trembling. I turned the page.

Friday.

10:36 a.m. Library. Forgot my dinosaur book in class. Ms. Tran gave me a hall pass.

10:40 a.m. I looked in the door window. A grown-up was at the cubbies. She opened MY backpack. She put an envelope in it. She zipped it. She did not see me. I hid by the water fountain. I was very scared.

10:43 a.m. She left. I went back to the library with no book.

Underneath, in careful pencil, my son had drawn a picture.

A small bird with a long, thin beak and wings spread out, the way they look when they’re hovering.

Next to it, in his big, careful letters, he had written: