I’m sitting in this plastic chair that was clearly built for someone half my size, and the air in this office smells like floor wax and that sour, stale coffee breath you only find in places where people get paid to be disappointed in you. Across from me, the "specialist" is flipping through a binder thick enough to be a murder weapon. She’s got these perfectly manicured nails—pale pink, like little sea shells—and they click against the paper every time she turns a page. Click. Click. Every sound is like a hammer hitting a nail into the coffin of my kid’s future and I’m just sitting here with my hands shoved under my thighs so she can't see them shaking. My son Leo has a brain like a beautiful, silver clock that somebody dropped in the mud. Some of the gears are spinning double time, making these incredible connections that take my breath away, but other parts are just jammed solid. To this woman, he’s just a series of red marks on a page. She’s talking about "metrical deficits" and "performance gaps" and all I can see is the way Leo looked this morning when he couldn’t get his shoes on the right feet. He looked at me with those wide, frustrated eyes, and I could see the static behind them. He’s drowning in the world's expectations and I’m supposed to be the lifeguard, but I’m paralyzed. I’ve got this fucking fire in my throat. It’s hot and sharp, like I swallowed a handful of jagged glass, but it stays right there, stuck behind my teeth. My old man was the same way—a quiet, heavy man who worked the line until his knees turned to dust and never said a word unless it was to tell us to get out from under his feet. I thought I’d be different because I read the books and I got the degree and I put on the button-down shirt every morning, but the truth is I’m just as hollow. I have all these words for how much I love that boy, how much I want to tear this building down brick by brick to get him what he needs, but they won't come out. I’m a brick wall with no door. She says something about "budgetary constraints" and I want to scream. I want to tell her that I’m living paycheck to paycheck, that I’m skipping meals so Leo can have the good vitamins, that I’m working ten-hour shifts and then coming home to stare at phonics flashcards until my eyes bleed. I want to tell her that "budget" is a word for people who don’t have to worry about whether their kid will ever be able to live a life that isn't a struggle for every breath of air. But I don't. I just nod. I nod like a fucking coward because I don’t know how to be the kind of man who makes a scene. I’m too busy being the kind of man who stays quiet so he doesn’t get fired. The anger is a cold stone in my stomach now. It’s not even at her anymore—not really. It’s at me. I’m his father. I’m the one person in the whole world who is supposed to stand up and say NO, THIS IS NOT ENOUGH. But I’m sitting here like a kid in the principal’s office, feeling the sweat itch under my arms and watching the clock on the wall. The second hand is stuttering. It looks like it's trying to move forward but it keeps falling back, just like Leo trying to read a sentence. I feel like such a fraud. I wear the suit, I do the spreadsheets, I play the part of the young professional, but inside I’m just a scared kid from the trailer park who doesn't think he has the right to ask for anything. At one point, she stops and looks at me, waiting for a response. The silence in the room is heavy, like wet wool. I can hear the hum of the fluorescent lights and the distant sound of kids shouting on the playground. I should say something about the extra tutoring. I should demand the speech therapy he was promised six months ago. My mouth opens, but all that comes out is a raspy "I understand." I UNDERSTAND. I don’t understand shit. I’m just letting her win because it’s easier than being the person I need to be. I’m failing him in real time and I’m doing it with a polite smile on my face. The meeting ends and she shakes my hand. Her hand is cold and dry. I walk out to the parking lot and the sun is too bright, it hurts my eyes. I get into my car—the one with the check engine light that’s been on for three weeks because I can’t afford the sensor—and I just sit there. I grip the steering wheel so hard my knuckles go white, like the bones are trying to burst through the skin. I want to smash my head against the dashboard. I want to yell until my lungs pop. Leo is going to grow up and he’s going to realize that his dad was a shadow. He’s going to realize that when the world came for him with its binders and its red pens, I just sat there and let it happen. It’s 2am now and I’m staring at the ceiling fan, watching it spin around and around, going nowhere. The house is quiet, but my head is screaming. I’m just a quiet man, and in this world, being quiet is just another way of being invisible. My son is out there in the dark, and I’m the one who turned the lights off. FUCK. I just can't do this... I can't be what he needs. It's never going to be enough.