I always thought my sixteen-year-old punk son was the one the world needed protecting from. Turns out, I had it backwards. I have two kids. My oldest, Lily, is the perfect student—honor roll, planners color-coded, teachers’ favorite. Then there’s Jax.Jax is unapologetically punk. Pink spiked hair, piercings, combat boots, a leather jacket people judge before they ever hear his voice. Parents whisper. Strangers stare. I always say the same thing: He’s a good kid. Last Friday night proved it.
It was bitterly cold when Jax went out for a walk. A short time later, I heard a sound from the park across the street—thin, desperate crying. When I looked out the window, I saw Jax sitting on a bench under the streetlight, wrapped around something tiny in his arms. I ran outside.