Mikey, my fourteen-year-old son, struggled with unkind classmates. Behind his smile, he carried sadness
I didn’t fully see until it was too late. His absence left an emptiness words can’t describe. As a high school
janitor for twenty-six years, I’d learned to hide my struggles, but nothing prepared me for this heartbreak.
The school dismissed it as an “unfortunate situation,” even suggesting a small, quiet service “to avoid attention.”
While packing Mikey’s belongings, I found his journal—filled with entries about his pain. His words gave me
determination to ensure his story was not forgotten. I turned to Sam, a family friend in a motorcycle
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