Throw-up tangled in my hair on picture day. Calls from the school counselor. A broken arm earned by “jumping off the shed, but in a cool way.” If there’s a disaster, chances are I’ve cleaned it up. I have two kids.
Lily is 19, away at college—the honor-roll, student-council, “can we use your essay as an example?” kind of kid.
My youngest is Jax. He’s 16. And Jax is… a punk.
Not the “slightly edgy” type. The full package. Neon pink hair spiked straight up, sides shaved clean. Piercings in his lip and eyebrow. A leather jacket that smells like gym socks and cheap body spray. Combat boots. Band tees covered in skulls I make a point not to read too closely.
He’s loud, sarcastic, and far sharper than he pretends to be. He tests boundaries just to see the reaction. People stare wherever he goes.
