Evan was ten when I met him. He was still in diapers and screamed. When he wanted something, he grabbed it. When his parents decided that they were exhausted, they contacted a social worker who recommended the residential school where I taught.

Evan's parents were guilty and filled with shame. Their marriage was hanging on by threads and their other children were angry and distant.

I didn't know what to say.  I know what it is like to have a disabled sibling. I know those feelings of shame and guilt and anger and sadness. I learned that life was unfair when I was in kindergarten. 

I tried to respond to Evan's family as a professional. I was a teacher, after all. But watching them say goodbye to him triggered an emotional response far from the training I had received.  As Evan's parents hugged him, I wept with them. Uncontrollably. It wasn't was I was supposed to do as the teacher. But there it was.

Evan's parents were sad but relieved.  They walked away from their son with severe autism and never came back.

Those of us who taught at the residential school were more than warm bodies. We were family.

These kids needed us but we needed them, too.