Calvin used to burst through the door every morning—waving his plastic dinosaur, calling goodbye

to the dog, smiling so brightly it could light up the block. But then, things changed.

He grew quiet. Skipped breakfast. Claimed his stomach hurt. He stopped drawing—something he once

loved. I told myself it was a phase, but I knew something was wrong.

One morning, I walked him to the bus. He hesitated before climbing aboard. A kid smirked.

Another pointed. Calvin pulled his cap low and wiped his eyes.

Then something unexpected happened. The bus didn’t move. Miss Carmen, our longtime driver,

reached her hand back without a word. Calvin grabbed it—and she held on.

That afternoon, she stepped off the bus and faced the parents. Calm but firm, she said, “Some of your kids are hurting people.”

She listed what Calvin had endured. She asked us to talk to our children. “We fix this today. Or I start naming names.”

That night, I listened—really listened—to Calvin. And everything changed.

Support came. The bullying stopped. Calvin started drawing again.

Miss Carmen later wrote me: “Sometimes, grown-ups forget how heavy backpacks can get when you’re carrying more than books.”

She didn’t just drive the bus. She changed a life.