I Noticed a Little Boy Crying in a School Bus, and I Jumped in to Help after Seeing His Hands

“If my mama were alive, honey, she’d knit me a prettier one than yours,” I whispered. She giggled and skipped down the aisle, humming her morning tune.

Once the kids were buckled in, I started the route, listening to the usual chatter—sibling arguments, whispered secrets, the thud of backpacks. After dropping them off, I walked the aisles, checking for forgotten homework or mismatched gloves.

That’s when I heard it: a soft sniffle from the back.

I stopped. “Hey? Someone still back here?”

A boy—small, maybe seven or eight—was curled against the window, trying to disappear into his too-thin coat. His backpack lay untouched. He didn’t look up.

“Buddy, why aren’t you heading to class?”

“I… I’m cold,” he murmured, hands tucked behind him.

Something in me tightened. “Let me see your hands, kiddo.”

He hesitated, then extended them.

Continue reading…

Leave a Comment