Yet somehow, my son did.
But there was one exception: Mrs. Carter, the school’s guidance counselor.
She had a habit of noticing students that other people overlooked. More than once, Evan came home and mentioned a conversation he’d had with her.
Sometimes she’d check in after a difficult day, and other times she’d simply remind him that high school wasn’t forever.
At the time, I don’t think either of us realized how much those conversations mattered.
I remember one evening during his sophomore year when I found him sitting alone on our back porch after dinner. The sun had already set. He was staring into the darkness with his hands folded together.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
The answer came too quickly.
I sat beside him anyway, and after a long silence, he shrugged and said, “Do you think some people are just born unlikable?”
The question hit me like a punch to the chest. I wanted to tell him he was wrong and give him one of those reassuring speeches parents keep in their back pockets. Instead, I asked, “Why would you think that?”
He shrugged again. “No reason.”
But there was a reason.
There always was.
What made it so hard was that Evan never became bitter. Even after years of exclusion, he kept trying.
Every new school year seemed to come with renewed optimism. He’d tell himself things would be different. He’d join clubs, start conversations, and volunteer for activities.
