My daughter had secretly spent months saving up to buy shoes for a boy in her class. The very next day, the school called to tell me Emma was involved in something serious. I rushed there, but the moment I opened the principal’s door and saw who was inside waiting for me, my entire body went cold.
The call came during my lunch break at work.
“Good afternoon,” the principal said, his voice tight. “I need you to come to school as quickly as possible.”
“Is Emma okay?”
There was a pause.
“She’s not hurt,” he said. “But something has happened, and she’s involved.”
By then, I had already grabbed my bag. My keys were in my hand. “I’m leaving now.”
As I sped through traffic toward the school, I kept trying to piece together what could have happened.
But my mind kept circling back to the morning before, and what Emma had done for her friend, Caleb.
I had walked into her room and found her piggy bank smashed on the floor.
“Emma, what happened here?” I had asked.
She had looked up at me, guilty, and said, “I needed the money.”
“For what?”
“Mom, I saw Caleb covering the holes in his shoes with tape.”
