28. Tiny Crosses
When I got home that night, Blondie and Brat Boy were sitting in the living room watching TV.
“Demanda was sobbing in Target,” Blondie said. Demanda was their nickname for a sophomore named Amanda. She was by their accounts equal parts beautiful, rich, and demanding. My children were shocked and baffled. Blondie added, “I came around the corner and she was standing by the office supplies, crying her eyes out. I asked if she was OK, and she said she didn’t want to go back to school. Dad, she was bawling.”
Brat Boy shook his head. “She runs that school. She was dating seniors when she was a freshman. All the girls are jealous of her. The teachers treat her like she was their boss. Her mother drops her off in a new Mercedes. Next year she’s supposed to get one of her own. What does she have to cry about?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Neither do you. Something’s bothering her. Even though you two may have good reason for not liking her, maybe you should withhold judgement until you know what’s wrong.”
Today I’ll remind myself that like objects in the mirror,
the cross someone else bears is often larger than it appears.
Writing My New Story © 2015 by Ken Montrose
Other publications available at: http://www.amazon.com/Ken-Montrose/e/B001K8MG0S
(Just a reminder: Writing My New Story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to anyone you might know is purely coincidental.)