That Story

That Story

Certainly, you know the one I’m speaking of, the one with the grainy images of a boy and four teenagers. I haven’t watched the video. I haven’t even clicked on the websites to scan the macabre details. I’ve only seen a few captions from my own friends and those were enough. That much of the story was too much.

Raising children that don’t torture, that is the prevailing thought that continues to flash through my sad mind. Having a son with special needs ensures I will never be the mother to one of those tormentors. To have a child with special needs has birthed the fiercest love I have witnessed in my three other children. My children? Never.

I can’t bring myself to go to the place that makes me consider the dark “what if” of that story. You may think that would be the primary take away circling a special need’s mama mind, but not mine. It’s too much. I’d like to think that my Amos would never fall into the hands of those who may harm him. I’d like to think that my small town loves him as their own. I’d like to think that all families are raising kind children.

This story isn’t a hate thing. This story isn’t a race thing. It’s a love thing. It’s “that story” for you, but for me, it has the potential to be our story and I can’t let that happen. Parents, talk to your kids. Teachers, talk to your students. Siblings, talk to your friends. And me? I’ll write and share the heart of a boy named Amos and I hope his story will offer a light that burns brighter than that story.

Don’t let that story be my story.

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