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.

Brayden stopped in front of Milo. He looked at the floor.

“I’m sorry I made you guard the eggs,” he mumbled. “And I’m sorry I said nobody would believe you. That was mean. And it wasn’t even true.”

Milo studied him the way he studies everything. Head tilted. Very serious.

“Why did you take the phones?” he asked.

Brayden blinked. Nobody, I realized, had asked him that. Not the police. Not his mother.

“I don’t know,” he said, and his voice wobbled. “My mom’s always busy. I wanted… I wanted people to think I was cool. Like a leader.”

Milo nodded slowly.

“You don’t have to steal phones to have people sit with you,” he said. “You just have to like dinosaurs.”

Brayden laughed, a wet, surprised sound. His father put a hand on his shoulder and led him away. But at the door, Brayden looked back, and Milo waved.