Within an hour of dropping my son off at junior kindergarten, I’m called to pick him up. The excitement of the first day of school quickly gives way to sadness and embarrassment. He was sitting on a chair in the office sucking his thumb while the secretary chastised him for misbehaving. I feel the need to chastise him, too; to signal we don’t condone whatever it is he did. But on the steps of the school after we leave the office, I kneel in front of him. I tell him he’s a wonderful boy. I promise him we’ll figure school out together.

It’s a promise I haven’t been able to keep.

My twin boys, now in Grade 5, have autism and complex needs. At one point, both of them were not attending school full-time because the public system does not support them.

These days, with one of my son’s schools, we’ve developed an “understanding.” I pick him up early. Sometimes earlier if I get the call. And I always get the call.

My body exists in a permanent state of readiness, waiting to be told my child is “having a hard day.” The euphemisms vary, but the message is always the same: get here. Every time I collect my boy, I see him as I did on that first day of JK: confused, overwhelmed, trying to comfort himself.