I used to believe, with the quiet certainty that comes from years of parenting through scraped knees and slammed doors, that my sixteen-year-old son was the one who needed protecting from the world. Jax looked like trouble before he ever opened his mouth. Bright pink spikes of hair stood up defiantly no matter how much rain or wind tried to flatten them. His leather jacket, scuffed boots, and metal piercings announced him long before he spoke, and people reacted accordingly.
I saw it in the way strangers crossed the street when he walked toward them at night, in the way store clerks watched his hands a little too closely, in the way other parents stiffened when he showed up at school events. I had spent years bracing myself, expecting the phone call that would finally confirm everyone else’s assumptions. I thought my job was to shield him, to smooth over his rough edges so the world wouldn’t cut him too deeply. That belief unraveled on a night so cold the air burned your lungs, when a park bench across the street became the center of a story I never imagined my son would be part of.
