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MIA

When I get to the principal’s office, my heart sinks. “Oh my God. What happened?!”

Eli trudges towards me, sporting a fresh black eye. He doesn’t answer—just drops the bag of frozen peas and tucks himself tightly against me.

“Baby?” I get down on his level, stroking his hair and trying to coax words out of him. “Does it hurt?”

He shakes his head, but flinches when I touch the bruise.

My heart breaks in a thousand different places. Here is my son, my world, and I couldn’t protect him.

Again.

Before I can ask anything else, the secretary’s head pops out. “Ms. Winters? Principal Johnson is ready for you.”

“I’ll be right back, okay?”

I squeeze his arms, press a kiss to his head, and duck into the office.

The principal is waiting by the window. “Mia,” she greets without a smile. “Take a seat, please.”

I swallow. Somehow, the Happy Hares Preschool principal always makes me feel like a little kid all over again—one who’s just gotten into huge trouble.

Which makes no sense. It’s my kid out there with a black eye, isn’t it? This is probably just an incident report.

Diane sits across from me, massaging her temples with a sigh. She’s a stout woman in her fifties with a gray-streaked afro and a no-nonsense attitude. Despite how uneasy I feel in her presence, I’ve always liked her as a principal. She’s the kind of woman who does no harm but takes no shit.

Unfortunately, her “take no shit” glare is now currently fixed on me.

“There’s no easy way to say this, Mia…”

“I know,” I cut in quickly. “I saw Eli outside. His eye?—”

“—was almost entirely his own doing, I’m afraid.”

Wait, what?

Fury mounts inside me. My mama bear claws are pushing to come out, but I restrain myself. “That can’t be true.”

“He assaulted his classmate Bobby.”

“Bobby Perkins? ” I explode. “Mrs. Johnson, you don’t understand. That kid—he’s a bully! The other day, Eli came home with his new shoes filled with holes. I had to buy him a replacement, one I almost couldn’t afford. He’s—he’s the worst!”

Diane lifts a plucked eyebrow. “A four-year-old child is ‘the worst’?”

“Yes! No—I mean?—”

“Look.” She steeples her fingers and leans on the desk. “Bobby has behavioral issues. Now, while I wasn’t aware of this particular incident, I’m aware of the bigger picture.”

“Great!” I blurt. “So why is my kid in trouble?”

“Because it wasn’t Bobby who escalated things this time.”

I blink. Diane’s words feel like water, going right through me. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that Eli threw the first punch.”

“Wha—” My mouth hangs open like a goldfish’s. “No, that can’t be true. Eli—he’s not a violent kid!”

“Maybe not,” Diane concedes. “But he’s hotheaded, impulsive, and won’t listen to anyone once something sets him off. You’re aware of his episodes, I presume?”

“That’s just anxiety,” I protest. “Ever since the fire, he’s been feeling out of control. His therapist said it’s normal.”

“The court-appointed therapist he only saw three times?”

Something in Diane’s tone makes me feel defensive. “Yes,” I grit out. “Is there a problem with that?”

For a long moment, Diane just stares at me. Then she takes off her glasses and sighs. “Mia, can I be frank with you?”

Maybe it’s the exhaustion in her voice that makes me put down my arms. The dark bags under her eyes, so much like mine.

“Of course.”

“We both know Bobby’s a little shit. Ms. Keane agrees that he was, indeed, trying to ruin Eli’s shoes.”

“See?!” I throw my arms up. “Then?—”

“That doesn’t change Eli’s reaction was completely disproportionate,” Diane interrupts. “He pounced on that kid, Mia. You think Eli looks bad? It was a miracle Bobby didn’t need stitches.”

My heart drops. “Stitches?”

“Eli took his scissors from him. He was hacking at his shirt when Ms. Keane managed to drag him off.”

I blink. My mind feels blank, frozen. I keep trying to picture Eli acting so violent and just—can’t.

My kid wouldn’t do that, would he?

Would he?

“What are you saying?” I murmur. “That Eli’s—what? Aggressive?”

Diane’s expression softens. “Eli’s a wonderful kid,” she says. “But he isn’t getting the support he needs. Not here, and definitely not with those three isolated therapy sessions.”

It stings to hear her say that. Like I’ve somehow failed him. “You think he needs more therapy? About the fire?”

“I don’t think this is about the fire at all.”

Then Diane pulls out a questionnaire.

“Every year, we test the students we feel meet the criteria.” She slides the paper my way. “These are Eli’s results.”

“Test?” My hackles rise. “Test for what? Why wasn’t I informed?”

“Because it’s a harmless questionnaire,” Diane shrugs. “And because you would have said no.”

“All the more reason?—”

“Mia, don’t get me wrong. Almost no parent wants their kids tested for this.” She levels me with her gaze. “And almost every child suffers for it.”

That gives me pause. The thought of Eli suffering—it’s the one thing I can’t bear.

“What am I looking at?” I sigh.

“A preliminary test for neurodivergent traits,” Diane says. “Eli’s score suggests he’d benefit from an ASD assessment, as well as an ADHD evaluation.”

It takes a moment for all those letters to sink in. “You’re saying Eli’s… autistic?”

“I think there’s enough evidence to warrant digging deeper.”

My mind reels. “But… he’s verbal. He’s social, he interacts, he?—”

“—can still be on the spectrum,” Diane interjects. “Even with all of that.”

“So, his episodes…” I swallow hard. “You think they’re meltdowns, then?”

“I do.” Diane taps on a chart at the bottom of the page. “I also think he’s been regularly behind his developmental milestones, if only by a little.”

“B-but…” I shake my head. “Eli’s smart. Like, really smart. And—and kind, empathetic, curious. He loves spy movies, you know? He’s always tinkering with his building blocks to make gadgets. If he had ADHD, or if he was autistic, or both—wouldn’t I have noticed?”

Wouldn’t I have known my son needed more from me?

Shouldn’t I have seen?

Is all of this my fault?

Diane squeezes my hand. “I think you and Eli have been through a lot already. It’s not easy to pick up on these signals when you’re a working single mom. And I think—though it’s only my opinion—that Eli saw how thin you were spread. Like you said, he’s a smart kid.”

There are tears in my eyes now. Not because Eli might be autistic—I’ve always hated parents who turn their kids’ diagnoses into personal tragedies—but because, if what Diane’s saying is true, I’ve been failing him.

“So he was masking?”

“It’s pretty early to call it that, but yes. In a way, he was. And when he wasn’t, it was easy to mistake the signs for long-term effects of his trauma.”

My voice is a broken, hopeless thing when it wobbles out of my throat. “So what do I do?”

“Honestly?” She fishes around her desk drawer. “If it were my kid, I’d do this.”

Then she hands me a pamphlet.

Rainbow Infinity Private School.

“This is…?”

“The support he needs,” Diane fills in. “Don’t get me wrong.

You won’t find anyone who believes in public school more than me.

But the truth is, here?” She gestures around at the crumbling plaster and ancient, scratched furniture.

“We’re barely keeping our heads above water.

There’s no way we can splurge on a specialized teacher.

And Ms. Keane? God, I love her, but she’s thick as a brick.

” She taps on the pamphlet with her fingernail.

“If you want to do right by your son, this is your best bet.”

My eyes scan the pages. Smiling children beam up at me, happy and diverse, with a rainbow shining behind them in an infinity shape.

It’s… nice.

Way too nice.

“How much is it?”

“Fifty thousand a year.”

The cogs in my brain screech to a halt. “That’s more than I make before taxes, Diane.”

“I realize that. Normally, I wouldn’t even be bringing this possibility to your attention.”

“So why are you telling me?”

“Because Eli’s special.” Her shoulders slump. “He’s bright, and he’s driven, and he hates injustices with all his heart. He’s also way too trusting and with his head in the clouds far too often. You think Bobby Perkins is bad? Wait to see what happens when he starts actual school.”

“You think he’ll get bullied?” My hands start trembling. “Like—seriously bullied?”

“I’ve seen it happen way too often to discount it. And not just with other kids.”

Diane’s words stab straight to my chest. “You’re saying teachers might…?”

“I know they will. Some of them, at least.”

“But…” I blurt. “But you must be able to do something. Fire them, or?—”

“And hire who?” Diane gives a bitter laugh.

“Our district’s been defunded to hell and back.

We’re losing our best teachers every year.

Even the ones who want to stay… they just can’t afford it.

I’m already scared enough for the rest of our kids as it is, but a special needs boy?

He won’t survive here. Even if I do my damnedest to protect him—which I will—it won’t be enough.

Sooner or later, he’ll be scarred. And I think he’s already got enough scars for one lifetime. ” Her eyes meet mine. “Don’t you?”

I think back to the fire.

To every night I gave up my meal for his because we couldn’t both afford to eat.

To the ratty shared apartment my son was born in.

To the father he doesn’t have.

“I do,” I whisper. “But fifty thousand a year…”

It’s impossible. It’s unreachable. Add up the rest of his schooling years, and that’s more than half a million. More than I could possibly make in a lifetime.

Unless…

Unless nothing. There was only one chance to pay for this, and I already turned it down.

I’m not so sure I regret it, either. Yulian’s proposal felt like a double-edged sword. It felt like the kind of deal you make with the devil.

And I’m not ready to sell my soul quite yet.

But what if it was the only thing that could save my son?

“Thank you,” I rasp. “I’m sorry for the trouble Eli has caused. Please, extend my sincerest apologies to Bobby’s family.”

Diane gives me a warm, two-handed handshake. “Don’t you worry about that. I’ll handle the Perkinses. You just sleep on this, okay?”

“Okay. Thank you, Mrs. Johnson.”

When I exit the office, Eli takes one look at me and hangs his head. “Did I make more trouble for you, Mommy?”

“Of course not.” I pull him close. “How about we go get ice cream?”

“Really?!”

“Really.” I press a kiss on the top of his head. “Then, once we’re home, we’ll talk a little more. Okay?”

“Okay, Mommy.”

As we walk back to the car, my heart fills with all sorts of feelings. Guilt is the worst of them.

My kid needed me. He needed me, and I wasn’t there.

By the time we make it home, Eli’s bouncing around with grocery bags filled with tubs of all sorts of flavors. I know I’m going to need to give him a stern talking-to about his attack on Bobby, but for now, I want to put him at ease. I want to see him smile again.

Then I see the crumpled envelope lying on the welcome mat.

“Mommy?” Eli peers down at it. “What’s this?”

“Nothing,” I say quickly, squirreling it under my arm. “Just mail.”

But I can’t ignore the anxious thumping of recognition in my chest, nor the Post-It stuck on top of the contract.

You have three weeks to decide.

Three weeks. That’s all I’ve got.

Three weeks to figure out my kid’s future.

Three weeks to decide whether to sell my soul or keep it.

Three weeks to shake hands with the devil.