I finally write “unknown.” It’s the truth.

I’m ushered into the administration area by a mousy woman who tries so hard to avoid eye contact it’s as if she walking me down death row. We get to an office with a closed door and a nameplate reading “Ms. Halliday.”

Mousy knocks, and I hear “Yes?” from inside. The woman ushers me inside Ms. Halliday’s office before scurrying away. Max is sitting in a chair, hunched over, and when he turns his head, I see his tear-glazed eyes.

“Oh, sweetie,” I say, rushing to him. He stands and hugs me, squeezing harder than normal.

“I didn’t start it, I swear,” he says.

“What happened?” I ask.

Before he gets a chance to answer, the assistant principal speaks. “Hello, Ms. Yates. I’m Ms. Halliday.”

I’m immediately put off by the whole last-name convention, as if this were a congressional inquest. I straighten, keeping one hand on Max’s back. Ms. Halliday is probably in her midforties but has put effort into looking older. A conservative white blouse, gray slacks, black hair in a tight bun, and glasses that look too large for her narrow face. She reaches out a hand and I shake it. Her fingers are frigid.

“I’m sorry we haven’t had the opportunity to meet yet, so let me first say welcome to Middleton. We’re excited to have Max here this year. Please, take a seat.”

I don’t, and Max remains standing at my side. “Can you just tell me what happened?” It dawns on me Max is the only child here. Where’s the other kid?

Ms. Halliday scrunches her face in a look of highly practiced mock concern and says, “I’m afraid Max engaged in behavior with another student that would fall within Middleton’s definition of bullying.”

“Bullying? That’s impossible.” Max is so meek and shy that even talking to other kids has always been a struggle for him.

“I’m afraid not. We have a zero-tolerance policy when it comes to bullying, in fact, much stricter than what you’d find in the public-school system. And zero tolerance means the student is required to go home for the rest of the day, at a minimum.”

My voice is louder than I want it to be, but I can’t hold back my frustration. “What happened?”

Max bursts out. “She started it. She said stuff about Dad.”

“Please, Max,” Ms. Halliday says. “That’s enough.”

Anytime another adult talks to my son with a sharp tone, my neck muscles tighten.

“It’s okay,” I tell him, trying to be as calm as possible.

“We only discipline behavior we witness or are certain of,” Halliday continues. “His teacher, Ms. Cathman, saw Max threatening another student with a sharpened pencil. She heard him telling the student that he would hurt her.”

“What?”

“No!” Max shouts.

“Now, Max, you know it’s true,” she tells him, and the hairs on my neck stand just hearing her say his name. Then to me: “There was no physical harm done, and I’m not ruling out the possibility Max had been provoked. But we do know what we witnessed, and Max needs to go home for the rest of the day.”