He used to be my sunshine.
Every morning, Calvin would race out the door, waving his toy dinosaur and grinning like he could power the whole neighborhood. But then, things changed.
He stopped smiling. Said his tummy hurt. Couldn’t sleep. And worst—he stopped drawing. My vibrant, creative boy was fading.
One morning, I walked him to the bus. He clutched his backpack, didn’t greet anyone, and hesitated at the steps. A kid said something. Calvin pulled his cap down and wiped his cheek. Tears.
But Miss Carmen, the bus driver, reached back without a word. He grabbed her hand like it was a lifeline. She held on. Just held.
That afternoon, she confronted us parents:
“Some of your kids are hurting people.”
She described what Calvin had endured—name-calling, tripping, stolen drawings. I felt shame. And gratitude.
She said, “You talk to your kids. I’ll talk to mine. We fix this. Today.”
I acted. Called the school. Talked to Calvin. He opened up about the bullying. The school stepped in. Apologies came. Calvin got a reserved seat up front—Miss Carmen called it the VIP section.
Soon, he was drawing again. Smiling again. Then, one morning, I heard him say to a nervous new kid:
“Wanna sit with me up front? It’s the best seat.”
I later wrote Miss Carmen a letter. She replied:
“Sometimes the grownups forget how heavy backpacks can get when you’re carrying more than books.”
I still carry that note.
If you see someone struggling—will you reach out? Or stay silent, hoping someone else will?