I found diapers in my 15-year-old son's backpack and decided to follow him after school.

The girl's name was Chloe. She was 17 years old. She was the older sister of one of her classmates.
She had had a baby a few months earlier, alone. Her parents, overwhelmed, had thrown her out. No support. No help. She lived in this small house lent by a neighbor.

My son met her while visiting his friend. Upon discovering her situation, he couldn't just sit back and watch.

For several weeks, he had been going to her house after school, helping with the baby, doing errands with his pocket money, bringing diapers, milk, and a little company. He hadn't told me anything about it, for fear that I would object.

I listened to him with tears in my eyes.

I had suspected the worst. I had doubted him. And yet, he wasn't running away from something stupid; he was being a quiet hero, in the shadows.

I hugged him and cried.

That day, I discovered a new side of my son. A huge heart. A rare maturity. A capacity for empathy I had never imagined.

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