We arrive at the hospital emergency room, and wait the required distance from the admissions desk until it is our turn, and I have to tell the nurse why we are here. My daughter made suicide threats, I whisper.

She nods and takes my insurance card and gestures toward the waiting area.

I sit on a sofa, facing the vast windows that let in what little light Seattle has to offer this time of year. The Child sits next to me.

I wonder if putting an arm around her will make her angry, or if not putting an arm around her set her off, so I do neither, and pat her arm lightly instead.

A nurse arrives and takes her behind the doors to the triage area, and then I am sitting alone, breathing disinfected air, staring past the corporate Christmas tree at the looming sky outside.

We meet in the office of The School Head. The conference table, like the rest of the office, is spare and modern, with a square glass bowl of tiny, colorful jelly beans at the center, next to a box of tissues.

The Counselor and School Head each have pads of paper with nothing written on them. The Counselor speaks first.

The Child told her boyfriend about her suicide plan.

The boyfriend told the Counselor about the conversation.

The Counselor interviewed The Child, and concluded the threats were credible.

The conversation is peppered with private, personal details, made public now, even though the door is closed and it’s just the three of us in a confidential meeting. They talk about my mother’s two cousins who committed suicide, my schizophrenic aunt, and The Child’s plan to hang herself from the rafters of the garage. I acknowledge the facts and people and deaths, but struggle to find the logic: the cousins died long before The Child was ever born, and I don’t think there are any rafters in my garage. If there are I can’t picture them, and while I’m trying to visualize my garage and sort out the mess of details the conversation has moved back to reality and what must happen now.

The Counselor suggests a hospital nearby would be the best place to take her, and mentions other places, treatment facilities, and I realize I should be writing this down, but I don’t have a pen or paper. The School Head hands me a blank sheet and a pen.

Everything is calm and restrained and I’m still not sure why I’m there or what I’m supposed to do; I was prepared for a different meeting, and keep expecting that meeting to begin.

This is not a disciplinary hearing, says the School Head.

I ask for directions to the hospital, and they seem relieved, and begin to describe the route as I realize that I know where to go. They retrieve The Child and sit with her in another room as I make hurried phone calls, to my office, explaining I need to leave for the day, and to my friend, who used to be Mayor and isn’t afraid to speak in public, and ask her to give the speech I am supposed to give the next day. She tells me: I’ve got it, do what you need to.

The day begins with an unremarkable argument: The Child is slow, we are late. A heated exchange is followed by a silent drive.

Mid-morning, the school calls: They want to schedule a meeting with me, the school counselor, and the head of school. They have some concerns. They ask me to suggest a time; meetings are moved to accommodate me.

The annual fundraiser has concluded, so I can think of only one reason for this urgent meeting, which I’ve been expecting for some time: The Child is being asked to leave. Her grades are not what they should be; she is rebellious, angry, frequently foul-mouthed.

I have an hour to get ready for the meeting, so I take a shower, and stand in the steam wondering what one wears to such a meeting, or if it even matters.

I call my friend the college professor: Success in school does not equate to success in life, he reminds me.

It helps, but only a little: My life is filled with social media posts proclaiming the successes of other people’s children.

Try to see the big picture, he says.

I let my coworkers know I’ll be out for an hour, put the foster dog into his crate, and drive to school for the second time that morning.