I remember apologizing immediately and profusely, assuring Mr. Noah that it would never happen again, that we were just upset because we wanted the best for Teddy, and wanting the best for him included him being able to master certain basic life skills, like handwriting, as old-fashioned and uptight as that might seem. I was vaguely aware of Gary’s rising anger as I fell on the sword, but he said nothing until we got to the car, where he told me how appalled and hurt he was that I’d sold him out. Worse than that, he said, was that I’d sold Teddy out. “There I am fighting for him and you totally caved. How could you have such divided loyalty? Whose side are you on?!”

I don’t make that same mistake today. I’m 100 percent Team Teddy. I don’t say a word of disagreement when Gary calmly but clearly tells Grace that Teddy is not the Secret Pooper, and that any further implication that he is—the mere whiff of suspicion during the day at school—will bring the hammer down in the form of legal action. “And who wants that?”

“No one,” Grace says, as if reading a hostage script.

“So we’re clear,” Gary closes.

“Quite clear.”

“You’ll leave our son alone.”

I glare at her over the dog’s head, jutting out of the sling, reveling in defying her don’t-bring-the-dog-to-school rule. “He’s not the Pooper.”

Grace glares back. “If you say so.”

Gary bristles at her tone. “Unless you want Judy and me to call the other middle school parents, tell them what’s going on and see what they think.”

I nod. “Maybe a meeting at the school would be good. Coffee and doughnuts. Chairs in a circle. A Facebook group and a social media hashtag. To give us a way to air our concerns and share information.”

Gary nods now, too. “Maybe bring in a shrink to explain what’s going on. Invite the board.”

But that won’t be necessary. Grace now looks stricken. She’s heard us. She’ll leave Teddy alone.

* * *

After I drop Gary at work, I drive over to visit Glenn. How is it possible that almost a week has gone by since my last visit? With no recent doctor appointments and an email over the weekend that said she was set and didn’t need any groceries, we’d taken that tiny bit of breathing room and accidentally gotten totally consumed by our own lives again. She hasn’t even seen my braces, and she has no idea what’s been going on with Gary and with Teddy, so I’m actually excited to fill her in, though I’m always afraid it’s tone deaf for me to prattle on about the mundane details of my daily life when she’s living in a parallel universe of illness. Aren’t there more important things to talk about than orthodontia and private school politics?

But when I get to her house and let myself in with her key and head upstairs to her room, she looks so tired and thin that I’m too shocked to speak.