Out of Session

I paid a fortune for the clinic and now I’m trapped, watching my son sinking by the day 

Sara Esther: My son needs help now — not in half a year.

Kayla: My professional policies are what make the clinic — and your child’s therapy — work.

Sara Esther

“Thanks so much! How’s he been?” I asked Morah Hadassah as I bent down to zip up Moishy’s coat.

“Good!” she said, like she did every day. I straightened, waved, and started maneuvering Chaya’s stroller out. Moishy followed, his mittened hands flapping as he tried to tug his backpack up with one arm and push open the heavy door with the other. The bag slid off his shoulder twice before he managed it.

That’s when the script changed.

Morah Hadassah stepped out after me.

“Actually,” she said, lowering her voice. “Can you give me a call tonight? I wanted to discuss something with you. Nothing to worry about,” she added too fast. “Just… something I noticed. That you might want to look into.”

Nothing to worry about meant I spent the next four hours in a state of abject terror because when a preschool teacher says something you might want to look into — well, that could be absolutely anything, best case scenario, “his scissor skills need strengthening” and worst case scenario, not things I even want to think about.