I’m 38 and thought I’d seen it all as a mom—vomit in my hair on picture day, calls from counselors, broken bones from dumb stunts. I have two kids: Lily, 19, honor roll and college-bound, and Jax, 16.
Jax looks like a punk—pink spiky hair, piercings, leather jacket—and people judge him. But he’s a good kid: polite, funny with his sister, kind to animals.
One freezing Friday night he said he was “going for a walk.” Later, I heard a tiny cry from the park across the street. I looked out and saw Jax on a bench, holding a newborn baby wrapped in a thin blanket.
He calmly told me someone had left the baby there and he couldn’t walk away. He’d already called 911 and was keeping the baby warm in his jacket. We waited for the ambulance, and the EMTs said he likely saved the baby’s life.
The next morning an officer came to our door—Officer Daniels—the baby was his son. The baby had been left by a scared 14-year-old babysitter. He thanked Jax, saying many would’ve walked past, but Jax didn’t.
Later he met the baby again, held him gently, and the baby reached for him. The officer even offered to help Jax with school recognition. Jax didn’t want to be called a hero, but the story spread in town and online.
He still wears his hair and jacket, still rolls his eyes at me—but on that frozen bench, he proved real heroes do exist.