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.

So he did. 8:15 a.m. Robin on the fence. Two worms. 3:40 p.m. Ice cube melted in 22 minutes. Dad burned the toast again. 7:02 a.m.

Milo was born with Down syndrome. He’s also the funniest, kindest, most curious person I’ve ever known. He can name forty-one dinosaurs and spell every one of them. He asks why the sky is blue at least twice a week, and he actually listens to the answer.

My husband, Jonah, and I homeschooled him for five years. It was the right choice at the time. But as he got older, there was one thing we couldn’t give him at our kitchen table.

Friends.

“I want somebody to sit with at lunch,” he told me once, very seriously, when he was nine. “Like on TV.”

A few weeks before the school year started, his doctor, Dr. Ines Ward, sat us down.

“He’s ready,” she said. “With the right support, a regular classroom could be wonderful for him. He deserves to try.”