“They called them… ‘trash’… a-and… said we… we belong… in a dumpster…”
I pulled him into my arms and held him there, not letting go until his breathing slowed, until the tears stopped, until he finally cried himself to sleep.
Even then, I stayed beside him.
I sat there for a long time, staring at those taped-up sneakers on the floor, my heart breaking over and over again.
The next morning, I expected Andrew to refuse to go to school—or at least agree to wear different shoes.
But he didn’t.
He got dressed, picked up those same sneakers, and sat down to put them on.
I crouched in front of him.
“Drew… you don’t have to wear those today.”
“I’m not taking them off,” Andrew whispered.
There was no anger in his voice—just something firm and unshakable.
So I let him go.
But I was terrified for him.
At 10:30 a.m., my phone rang.
It was Andrew’s school.
My stomach dropped before I even answered.
“Hello?”
