The next afternoon, Leo came home from school, his face streaked with tears. His shoulders hunched, his backpack hanging heavy. He usually burst through the door, eager to talk about his day, but today he was silent.
“What happened, honey?” I knelt, trying to catch his eye.
He wouldn’t look at me. His small hands clenched into fists at his sides.
“They were saying things,” he mumbled, his voice thick.
“Who was saying what?”
“The older kids. In the playground. They said… they said you’re a liar. That you tried to steal from Mr. Caldwell.”
My breath hitched. The media campaign wasn’t just affecting my career; it was reaching Leo, polluting his innocent world.
“They called me a crybaby,” he continued, looking up, his eyes pleading. “And they said… they said you’re crazy. Why do they hate us, Mom?”
My heart ached. I pulled him into a hug, feeling the raw impact of Caldwell’s actions. This wasn’t just about money or reputation anymore. It was about my son’s spirit, his sense of safety. The very next day, Leo refused to go to school, clinging to my leg, a newfound anxiety etched onto his small face.
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