Every morning, six-year-old Calvin used to rocket out the front door like a firework—shouting goodbye to the dog, waving his toy dinosaur in the air, and racing to the bus stop with a smile that could melt the morning frost. His joy was infectious, his imagination endless.

But then… the light in his eyes began to fade.

The grins disappeared. In their place came whispered complaints of tummy aches. Nightlights stayed on longer. And worst of all—he stopped drawing. My little artist, who once turned our walls into wild jungles and colorful zoos, now scribbled only gray spirals. Or nothing at all.

I knew in my bones something wasn’t right.

So one morning, instead of waving from the porch, I walked him to the bus. He held onto his backpack like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

When the doors creaked open, he froze. I knelt beside him and whispered, “You’re okay.” He gave the faintest nod…