Every morning, six-year-old Calvin would shoot out the door like a cannonball—yelling goodbye to the dog, waving his toy dino,
and sprinting to the bus stop. His grin could light up the whole street. But slowly, that light dimmed. He stopped smiling.
Started complaining of tummy aches. Begged for the hallway light at night. And worst of all—he stopped drawing. My little
artist, who once covered walls in zoo animals, now only scribbled dark swirls. Or nothing at all. I knew something was wrong.
So one morning, instead of watching from the porch, I walked him to the bus. He clutched his backpack like it might float away.
When the doors opened, he hesitated. I whispered, “You’re okay.” He nodded,
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