My 12-year-old son reduced another boy to tears by calling his father a loser for bagging groceries, and when that boy begged for mercy, my son showed none. The punishment I gave my boy was harsh and immediate, but what came after is something he’ll carry for the rest of his life. My name’s Ethan, and I’m 43 years old.
Seven years ago, my wife died in a car accident, and I’ve been raising our son, Caleb, alone ever since. He’s 12 now, with his mother’s quick laugh and my stubborn streak, and most days I wonder if I’m doing any of this right. I work at the factory on the edge of town.
Long shifts that leave my back aching and my hands stained with grease. It pays the bills and keeps us fed. My mom lives with us now, helping with Caleb when I’m working late, making sure he’s never alone.
For the past few months, I’d been pulling doubles, barely seeing Caleb except for rushed breakfasts and goodnight texts I sent between shifts. I wanted to surprise my son and pick him up from school myself instead of making him take the bus. Thought we’d grab milkshakes at that diner he loves, talk the way we used to before life got so exhausting.
I parked across from the school gates and waited, sipping lukewarm coffee. The bell rang, and kids poured out in a wave of backpacks and cheering. I spotted Caleb almost immediately.
He was standing with three other boys, laughing about something, looking completely at ease. Then I heard his voice cut through the noise, loud and vicious:
I wasn’t ready for the way those words hit me. That couldn’t be my son… the kid who cried over injured birds and saved allowance money to buy his teacher birthday presents.
But then Caleb said it again, even crueler this time:
He was pointing at a skinny kid with thick glasses and a backpack twice his size. The boy’s face had gone bright red, and tears were streaming down his cheeks. He was crying, and my son was laughing.
“Please stop,” the boy pleaded. “Please don’t talk about my dad like that.”
Caleb leaned in closer, and his friends snickered behind him. “Why?
Does the truth hurt? Your dad’s a nobody who bags groceries for minimum wage.”
“Caleb, please…” The boy’s voice cracked completely. “It hurts.”
A bolt of heat shot through me.
I pushed through the crowd of parents and kids, my hands shaking from a deep, overwhelming shame. I couldn’t believe that kind of cruelty came from the boy I’d raised. He spun around, and his grin faltered when he saw my face.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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