I thought my twelve-year-old had spent the summer quietly helping elderly neighbors with their yards. Then, just days before school started, two police cars pulled up outside our house and asked for him by name.
Have you ever gone from being incredibly proud of your kid to absolutely terrified for them in a matter of minutes?
Because that happened to me three weeks before my son started seventh grade, and I still think about how differently that afternoon could have gone.
I didn’t realize that the same instinct making me proud would soon make me wonder how much I had missed.
My son, Justin, is twelve.
He’s not one of those children parents describe as perfect while everyone who knows them quietly rolls their eyes. Justin forgets homework, leaves wet towels on his floor, and somehow believes empty cereal boxes belong back inside the pantry.
But he has a good heart.
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