Then I heard it.
That deep, shaking cry no parent ever forgets.
I rushed into his room and found him curled up on his bed, clutching those sneakers like they were the only thing holding him together.
“It’s okay, buddy… talk to me,” I said as I sat beside him.
Andrew tried to hold it in, but the words broke through anyway, coming out in fragments.
“Th-the kids at school… they… they laughed at me…”
He wiped his face, but the words kept slipping out.
“Th-they pointed… and said stuff… about my shoes… about us…”
His voice cracked.
“They called them… ‘trash’… a-and… said we… we belong… in a dumpster…”
I pulled him into my arms and held him there, not letting go until his breathing slowed, until the tears stopped, until he finally cried himself to sleep.
