Every morning, six-year-old Calvin would race to the bus, grinning and waving his toy dinosaur. But slowly, that light dimmed. Smiles faded. Stomachaches began. His once-colorful drawings turned into blank pages or angry scribbles.
I told myself it was a phase—until one morning, I walked him to the bus and saw the truth.
As Calvin climbed aboard, a kid in the back said something cruel. Calvin pulled his hat low, turned to the window, and quietly wiped away a tear.
The bus didn’t move.
Miss Carmen, the driver, reached back and held out her hand. Calvin took it, clinging to her like a lifeline.
That afternoon, she stepped off the bus and faced the waiting parents.
“Some of your kids are hurting others,” she said. “It’s not teasing. It’s bullying. And we fix it. Today.”
That night, Calvin told me everything. And finally, I listened.
The school acted. Apologies followed. Calvin sat in the front—Miss Carmen’s “VIP section.”
Weeks later, I saw him drawing again: a rocket bus, a smiling boy, and a driver at the helm.
And to a nervous new kid, he said, “Wanna sit with me? I’ve got the best seat.”
Sometimes, one hand can change everything.
