Then Sam showed up at our door. Six-foot-three, leather vest, gray beard down to his chest. I recognized him—he pumped gas at the station where Mikey and I would stop for slushies after his therapy appointments.
“Heard about your boy,” he said, standing awkward on our porch. “My nephew did the same thing three years back. Different school, same reason.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I just nodded.
“Thing is,” Sam continued, looking past me like the words hurt to say, “nobody stood up for my nephew. Not at the end, not after. Nobody made those kids face what they did.”
He handed me a folded paper with a phone number. “You call if you want us there. No trouble, just… presence.”
I didn’t call. Not at first. But the night before the funeral, I found Mikey’s journal. Pages of torment. Screenshots of text messages telling my gentle, struggling son to “do everyone a favor and end it.”
