My 16-Year-Old Son Saved a Newborn from the Freezing Cold — and the Next Morning, a Police Officer Knocked on Our Door

My oldest, Emma, is nineteen and away at college. She’s the honor-roll, student-council, “can we keep your essay as an example?” kind of kid. The kind teachers still email me about.

My youngest is Noah.

Noah is sixteen.

And Noah is… a punk.

Not the slightly-edgy phase some kids flirt with. The full, unapologetic package. Neon magenta hair spiked straight up, the sides shaved clean. A ring in his lip, another in his eyebrow. A leather jacket that smells like old gym socks and cheap body spray. Heavy combat boots. Band shirts splashed with skulls I make a point not to read too closely.

He’s loud. Sarcastic. And far sharper than he lets on. He tests boundaries just to watch the reaction. Heads turn wherever he goes.

Kids whisper during school assemblies. Parents scan him from head to toe and give me that tight, polite smile that says, Well… he’s expressing himself.

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