The formal introductions, the signatures, and the irrelevant stacked folders were all wrapped in an ordinary Monday.  

The paper-clipped papers, grade level metrics, and the checking off lists that never mattered. The deep breath sighs and sharp reminders of the slippery stairs we could not climb.  

The rectangle meeting table held extra-large water bottles, coffee mugs, and the faces of the same people who sat on the sidelines last year. The same people who shrugged their shoulders while we tried with all our might to transition Jake back to school. We would have done anything.  

They back traced their steps with their unreachable transition plans. They recited the path of their one-way street maps. They called out the accommodations they proudly put in place. The tall exceptions they had to make.  

The signatures I signed, and what they thought they already put in line. They reflected on the thirty-four hours Jake attended school last year. Thirty-four hours.  

The effort, the time, all their wasted minutes waiting by the door. Time in which they had to leave their classrooms. Time, they had exhausted before. They repeated all their simplistic sideline words. They shifted up their posture only to say… 

 “Jake was more than fine when he was in school. Jake did not have anxiety, sensory challenges, or any behaviors when he was in the building. Jake was more than fine in the crowded school cafeteria. More than fine.”  

Please tell the meeting room “Why can’t he attend?” and “What do you need from us?” and more gaslighting. More finger pointing, and more expected disrespect to transcend.  

The opposing lawyer was quick to call out “And wasn’t residential recommended for Jake?” I shut down her words right away. “Residential is not an option”. The words lunged back and forth like jabs in the face. The meeting was a familiar shade of ugly.  

My lawyer could only fight to create an ounce of space to allow my full response without interruption. This was all he could do. There was little space to move in the room.  

The eye rolls, the smirks, and the slow-motion head shakes from the opposing lawyer was the grandest form of irreverence in the room. No words were necessary.  

Jake’s ABA therapist was torn down as well. “You obviously did nothing to prepare Jake for school this year.” Our ABA therapist wore her amour, as she clarified the great accomplishments. The meaningful words they could not hear.

She talked into their ears. Listening was not on the agenda. Empathy was rare. I watched her words slide under the door. Their faces locked in stare. No words were necessary.  

They explained what they can and cannot do once again. He needs to be here for us to provide. “We cannot bring in a private ABA company. We cannot walk out to the car. We cannot come to your home. We have everything Jake needs right here. We have everything Jake needs. He just has to come to school. He is fine when he is in school.”  

There was more back and forth. More detail of what they could not provide. More needs that could not be met. More inaccessible goals. More of what they could do if he would just come inside.  

Once again, Jake took a back seat. Cost saving priorities were more important. Systems were weak. The IEP was more about the process. Less about the needs they could meet.

All the pride in the room overshadowed Jake. Our story was misjudged and played out. Our story was old by now.  

We tried for so long. We tried it their way. We tried with all our might. Jake could not participate within the means they could not accommodate. There was no need to explain what they would never understand. No words were necessary.  

The ball was fully in their court. It was not about Jake anymore. It had not been about Jake for too many years to calculate.  

The thirty-four hours we celebrated last year and tried so hard to launch from was always a failure to them. Nothing would change. Nothing would shift the direction. Nothing would shift the hopeful school momentum. It had slipped out of our hands.

There was nothing more to say at the rectangle meeting table. Unmet needs were dusty. Nothing left to enable.

I was thankful that they at least gave a firm cutoff this time. “By the end of the third quarter, we will disenroll Jake from school. We have done enough.”  

I brushed myself off and stood in the air of uncertainty.  

There was irony in the uncertainty of what we were about to face. The ending could be a new beginning. The closed door could be the closure we needed. A needed start. The chance to open another door. Something better. Something that means so much more.

The air was calm.

And just like that, it was over… 

The door to the meeting room closed behind me.  

After the meeting I was dizzy for hours. I could not shake the spinning feeling. I took a deep breath. I tried to keep the day mostly normal. To move on. To be thankful it was for the best.  

I talked to Jake about a new dog treat recipe we would try to make the next day. A project, a way to help, and taking steps in another way. I showed him the new paw print plastic bags.  

Later, I spoke to my lawyer who would close out our case. There was nothing more to do legally he said, and he did not litigate.  

The doors closed in unison. The doors closed in all directions.  

There was silence.  

I stopped to look at the sunset on that chilly winter night. The sky was framed in bright lit shades of orange. There had to be something. There had to be something better on the horizon.  

I felt enormous gratitude for the greater perspective I had grown into. Gratitude for Jake’s amazing progress. I was proud of the peace we prioritized. The raw intuition we dared to follow.  

We could begin to walk a new path. A path created for what was best for Jake. We were ready. I just knew we were already walking.