My name is Lana, and I live in Oregon. When I received a call from my son’s school, I was naive enough to think everything was okay.
Noah, my son, is seven. He still tucks cute drawings under my pillow, says “bless you” when strangers sneeze—basically, a sweetheart. So when the vice-principal said he’d been “acting out”—tantrums, pushing other kids—I thought there was some kind of mistake.
Eventually, they referred him to the school counselor. I was relieved. I thought counseling could help—ever since the divorce, Noah had become more withdrawn, clingy. It felt natural.
Then, out of nowhere, the sessions stopped.
I followed up. On my third call, the counselor finally answered—but her voice was cold. She told me she had discontinued the sessions—not because of Noah’s circumstances, but because he’d become “physically aggressive.” She told me he’d thrown a toy, shouted alarming things she couldn’t repeat, and she no longer felt safe working with him. She insisted he see a private specialist instead. It was like a punch in the gut.
At home, Noah had tantrums—like any kid—but “alarming aggression”? I was stunned. When I pushed for information, she said, “This isn’t about divorce; Noah’s pattern feels manipulative. He doesn’t respect authority.” I felt crushed. Like my innocent little boy had been demonized in that office.
Now, Noah is quieter than ever, withdrawn. When asked about school, he shrugs—like he fears my reaction more than the truth. And I? I’m terrified, torn between guilt, disbelief, and the firm resolve that no one will psychologically erase my child.
