At seven years old, Ethan still believed every thought in his head deserved to be shared with me.
Until last Thursday.
That afternoon, I was waiting near the front steps when the bus turned onto our street.
The sky was cloudy, and a cool wind pushed dry leaves across the lawn.
The bus slowed.
Then it stopped.
The doors folded open with their usual mechanical groan.
But when Ethan stepped off, something was immediately wrong.
He was much quieter than usual.
He didn’t smile.
He didn’t wave.
He didn’t even look at me.
His shoulders were pulled inward, and he held tightly to both straps of his backpack while staring at the ground as though he were counting every crack in the sidewalk.“Ethan?” I called.
He didn’t answer.
Instead, he hurried inside without saying a word.
I stood there watching the front door close behind him.
