teachers, and a bald chaplain.
“I used to think raising a good child meant teaching him to behave, work hard, and treat people with respect,” I said.
Diane looked at me.
“What do you think now?”
“I think it means raising someone who sees another person’s pain and refuses to look away.”
Through the window, I could see Aaron standing in the kitchen, searching the pantry again.
A moment later, he opened the back door.
“Mom, are there any chocolate granola bars left?”
Diane and I looked at each other and laughed.
“Second shelf,” I called.
He disappeared inside.
I had always believed I was raising a kind boy.
But that day at the hospital, I understood that somewhere along the way, almost without my noticing, my son had become a compassionate young man.
He had shaved his head to make one frightened girl feel less alone.
Then he had
