My son had just started first grade and would be moving up to second grade in the fall. That evening, when I went to pick him up from school, his teacher pulled me aside. “Mrs. Sullivan, has something been going on at home? Kevin’s been really unfocused in class lately, and he’s been using bad language. He’s not getting along with the other kids; he either pulls girls’ hair or fights with boys. Can you please talk to him about this?”
I nodded repeatedly, apologizing to the teacher and promising to communicate with Kevin when we got home.
The teacher also informed me about a parent-teacher meeting this Friday.
Once I got home, I intended to discuss this with my son, but before I could start, he shouted, “I don’t want you to go to the meeting! I want Grandma to go! You’re so embarrassing; you don’t even act like my mom! It’ll be humiliating if you show up!”
He ran to his room and locked the door. I looked down at my outfit.
Over the years, I had prioritized the family and hardly had time to take care of myself. My clothes were from years ago, and I wore them as long as they weren’t falling apart.