Mean
He hangs in the door of my office and I can tell from his face that something is wrong. "What is it honey?" "The boys," he hesitates, tries to control his voice, "the boys won't play with me again. They keep saying that I'm not so good at soccer or basketball." "Well, you aren't so good compared to them. They are bigger and have been playing a lot longer..." I wait for the rest. "And they were making fun of me and said my pants are girl pants. and, and," his face crumples, "one of them even called me a piece of shit." "I'm not so popular here," he manages. "I was more popular in our old neighborhood, I had more friends there. Here, not so much." I lift my arms to him, to this boy, so sweet, and kind, and loving and he crumples his 9 year old body on to my lap like he hasn't done in years. "It's hard honey. I know." I hold him close and kiss his forehead, resi