Nick’s snowmen were supposed to be innocent. Childhood. Wonder. Not targets.
But every day, the same thing happened: he built joy, and our neighbor, Mr. Streeter, crushed it under his tires like it meant nothing.
Nick’s anger hardened into something quieter. Sharper. The day he whispered, “I have a plan,” I didn’t understand what my eight-year-old was really abou… Continues…
