You were intrigued, though. So you gave Carson an assignment you’d given none of the others applying for the assistant position: write a Silver Swans newsletter and some sample Instagram posts that would get parents’ attention. “I want it to say, ‘We are all in for your children, and you should respect us and tell all your friends about us,’ ” you told him. “I want it to say, ‘If you aren’t sending your kids here, and if your friends aren’t sending their kids here, then you’re losers.’ But subtly. You got it?”

And he’d nailed it. Boy, had he nailed it! His voice was “cool mom who’s up to her elbows in kids . . . but also makes time for her Peloton.” He threw subtle shade at all the other schools in town. He low-key shamed those who didn’t value education over everything else. He knew all the tricks that made mothers weak—you knew firsthand. After reading his sample work, even you started to feel that familiar guilt.

So you hired him. These days, he writes all the newsletters. Handles the fundraising. Pressures parents into volunteering. What his goal is in all this, you really aren’t sure. Maybe he just likes being good at something. Maybe he’s happy he’s found his niche. Sometimes you wonder if he has a platonic crush on you. Sometimes you get the little-boy-wanting-to-please-his-mother vibe. But mostly, you’re just glad you have someone on your side, an almost-friend.

You try to take care of Carson. You tell him that he’s valued, and you pay him more than any other assistant doing his job is paid. But it’s getting harder. His newsletters aren’t working anymore. Parents, so recently robbed of their savings, are saying he’s insensitive, even bullying. The money for Carson’s salary could be better served elsewhere.

It’s all going to shit.

You might have spent the past five years growing your kingdom, turning Silver Swans into a school every parent wants their kid to attend because of its cache, its guests, its resources. In the past five years, you’ve been on the covers of magazines and the subject of blog posts and have been on Happy Morning OC six times to talk about mommies and kids. In the past five years, you’ve been able to give North everything he wants, anticipating his needs ahead of time, intuiting what a boy his age wants and adores. Last year—this very month—you had parents clamoring at your sides, begging to be put on the waiting list, practically throwing their money at you.

This place is your identity. It’s who you are, as a person. And now it’s been stripped away. It’s like you’re walking around without a face. It’s like your anthill has been smashed.