Every morning, six-year-old Calvin would burst out the front door like a firecracker—waving his toy dinosaur, calling goodbye to the dog, and smiling with the kind of joy only a child can truly understand. Riding the school bus was his favorite part of the day. At least, it used to be.
Then things began to change.
The chatter stopped. His morning smile faded. He complained of stomachaches. He started sleeping with the hallway light on. His drawings—once filled with dinosaurs and rocket ships—turned into scribbles or blank pages, often left crumpled in the trash.
I told myself it was just a phase. But in my heart, I knew it was something more.
One morning, I decided to walk him to the bus stop instead of waving from the porch. Calvin held onto his backpack like it was a shield. His steps were slow. He didn’t speak.
When the bus arrived, he paused. “You can do this,” I told him softly. He nodded and stepped on board.
That’s when I saw it.
As he walked down the aisle, a student near the back whispered something and laughed. Another nudged him. Calvin lowered his head and turned to the window. He wiped his face with his sleeve.
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