My Son Is Not Your Prop

It happened during Spirit Week. My son’s teacher had the class vote on the "most disgusting" student.

My eight-year-old won.

When Sam got home, he didn't even drop his backpack. He ran straight into the hallway bathroom, slammed the door, and locked it.

I knocked, my heart tightening at the sound of his muffled, ragged breathing. "Sammy? What’s wrong, sweetie?"

Through the door, his voice cracked, thick with tears. "Mama... am I really disgusting?"

My mind went entirely blank. A cold, sharp ringing started in my ears.