His teachers called twice.
The first time was in fifth grade. Ms. Barnes, his homeroom teacher, very kind, very careful. “He’s not disruptive at all,” she said. “That’s sort of the problem. He just isn’t there. He sits in the back and he doesn’t raise his hand, and when the other kids are doing group work, he kind of drifts off to the side.”
The second time was this year. Seventh grade. A different teacher, but the same words. Withdrawn. Quiet. Not participating.
“Is anything going on at home?” she asked.
I wanted to laugh. I wanted to say, his father died, what do you think is going on at home? But I just said, “We’re working on it.”
We weren’t working on anything. I didn’t know how. I’d lost my husband, and somehow in the same year, I’d lost my son too, even though he was still right there, eating cereal across the counter from me every morning with his eyes on his phone.
