The afternoon I picked Mateo Herrera up from school, he leaned toward me in the back seat and whispered, “Mr. Rafael… my back hurts.”-olweny

“She’s going to be mad.”

“Let her be mad.”

He shook his head, terrified.

“If she says I was bad, my dad will believe her.”

That’s what hurt me the most. Not the bruises. Not the marks. But the certainty with which that boy believed no one would ever choose him.

I got out of the car, walked around to the SUV, and opened the door for him. Mateo got out slowly. The moment his feet touched the floor, he winced in pain, confirming what I already knew.

This hadn’t happened just once.

It had been going on for some time.  

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