The teacher said Emma was perfect. I knew my child was suffering.
I sat in that parent-teacher conference bracing for bad news.
After eighteen months of daily 3:15pm explosions, I figured Mrs. Peterson would confirm what I already knew: Emma had serious behavioral problems.
Instead, she smiled and said something that made my stomach drop.
"Emma is wonderful. I wish more students were like her."
I actually asked if she had the right child.
Because the Emma I knew? She screamed the second I picked her up from school.
Threw her backpack in the parking lot. Sobbed over homework she couldn't focus on for thirty seconds.
Every. Single. Afternoon.
For a year and a half.