10 octobre 2026

My thirteen-year-old son sold his beloved guitar to buy a wheelchair for a classmate whose classmates laughed at her broken one. Two mornings later, police officers knocked on our door.

“I sold it, Mom.”

For a moment, I thought I’d misheard.

“You sold it?”

He nodded.

I felt a lecture forming in my throat, complete with several powerful opening lines and no plans to end soon.

“That guitar meant everything to you.”

“It did.”

“Then why would you—”

“Elena needed a wheelchair.”

My lecture vanished.

I knew Elena, a classmate of his with bright, attentive eyes and a lovely smile. At school events, she usually had a book on her lap.

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