Mikey, my fourteen-year-old son, struggled with unkind classmates. Behind his smile, he carried sadness
I didn’t fully see until it was too late. His absence left an emptiness words can’t describe. As a high school
janitor for twenty-six years, I’d learned to hide my struggles, but nothing prepared me for this heartbreak.
The school dismissed it as an “unfortunate situation,” even suggesting a small, quiet service “to avoid attention.”
While packing Mikey’s belongings, I found his journal—filled with entries about his pain. His words gave me
determination to ensure his story was not forgotten. I turned to Sam, a family friend in a motorcycle
club that supported community causes. He promised his riders would stand with us.
The next morning, fifty members of the Steel Angels arrived, forming a respectful line from the parking
lot to the chapel. Their presence wasn’t about anger, but unity and compassion. At the service,
classmates admitted they had seen Mikey struggle but didn’t know how to help. Their honesty sparked healing.
Mikey’s story inspired change. The district launched a kindness program, and I created a scholarship in his name.
Now I ride with the Steel Angels, sharing his story and reminding others: someone cares, and someone is listening
