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.

Milo stood in the doorway with his blue backpack and his green notebook, and he didn’t say anything at all for a long moment.

Then he turned around and hugged me so hard I almost fell over, just like the day we first told him about school.

“I’m not going to be late,” he said into my jacket.

“I know, baby.”

A few weeks later, he and Felix started a new club at lunch. It’s called the Fossil Hunters. It has eleven members. There are no secrets and no eggs. Membership requires only that you can name at least one dinosaur.

Brayden joined in November. He can name nine.

That night, after Milo fell asleep, I opened his Field Notes one more time. I didn’t mean to snoop. It was lying open on his desk.

The newest entry was in his big, careful letters.

Monday. 12:12 p.m. Fossil Hunters met. Brayden brought cookies. He said sorry again. I said okay.