My son sits, miserable, on his bed.

“How could you?” I ask. “Seriously. What goes on in your head?”

He shakes his head. “I’m sorry?”

“You sound like you’re asking. Are you asking me if you should apologize, or are you apologizing?”

“I’m apologizing.” Squirming, he still won’t meet my gaze.

“Honey, you’re better than this. I really, really need you to stop hurting other people.”

Sighing, he says, “I know. But he made me mad.”

“How did he make you mad?” I ask. “He was just standing there!”

I think of yesterday’s conversation with the assistant principal. “You have to realize that every adult who supposedly cared about him has disappeared. Every time he thought he was safe, your son was left to defend himself,” Mr. L reminded me. “By alienating and scaring the other children, he’s ensuring that if the adults fail to protect him–or disappear completely–no one will even consider trying to hurt him.” 

The assistant principal was right. I sit next to my boy. “Look. I know that you’re scared. It’s a new school, and you don’t know who you can trust. You’re trying to make sure no one else will hurt you; I get that. But honey, you have to realize that these kids don’t even know you. Some of them aren’t nice, but most of them are. They want to be friends. You need to be kind.”

He looks up at me, eyes glimmering with the tears he so desperately hates to release. “Okay.”

“And sweetie,” I say, “I know that other places have made you move out because of your behavior. But I promise you: Daddy and I will never, ever let you go or kick you out. I love you more than life itself. That means I would die for you. No matter how bad your behavior is, I will always, always be right here, and I’ll love you no matter what you do. I will not disappear.”

He rockets into my arms with a strangled sound, sobs soaking my shoulder.

After several minutes he calms, then wraps one chubby arm around my neck. “You know, mama, sometimes I think maybe you love me even more than God.”