Every morning, my son Calvin used to burst through the front door like a ball of energy—waving his plastic dinosaur, shouting goodbye to the dog, and bounding toward the school bus with a grin that could brighten the entire neighborhood. At six years old, he didn’t just start the day—he ignited it.
But slowly, something shifted.
The sparkle faded. Mornings became quieter. He stopped waving. He stopped smiling. Some days, he didn’t want to put on his shoes. Other days, he complained of stomachaches with no clear reason. Nights were harder too—he couldn’t sleep unless the hallway light stayed on. And the thing that broke my heart most of all? He stopped drawing.
My son, who once filled entire rooms with colorful zoo animals and rocket ships, now left his papers blank—or worse, covered them in gray scribbles before tearing them apart. I told myself it was a phase, but deep down, I knew better.
One morning, I decided to walk him to the bus instead of waving from the porch. As we reached the stop, I noticed how tightly he held his backpack, like it was his shield. When the bus doors opened, he hesitated before stepping inside.
Then I saw it.
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