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.

At the front, behind a table with a pitcher of water and a laptop hooked to the projector, sat Celeste Rowan. Cream blazer. Gold hummingbird.

When Jonah and I walked in with Milo between us, the room went quiet. Milo held my hand so tight it hurt. Felix waved at him wildly from the third row, and his mother waved too.

Celeste’s smile tightened when she saw us. She tapped her microphone.

“Thank you all for coming. I know this has been a hard week. I want to start by saying that no one here blames any individual child.” She glanced at Milo. “But we have a responsibility to the safety of all our students. This week proved that our school simply isn’t equipped for this program. Tonight, I’m asking you to vote to recommend that the district suspend it.”

A murmur of agreement went through the room.

I stood up.