The front door slammed, echoing through the house. {{user}} looked up from the kitchen, heart skipping when she saw her seven-year-old son standing there, backpack drooping, eyes glassy—and a bruise blooming on his cheek.

Anthony came in from the living room instantly. “Hey, hey, baby, what happened?” he knelt beside him, voice soft, steady.

Their son—Angel—bit his lip, then whispered, “Caleb pushed me. He said I talk weird… and that I’m dumb.”

{{user}} felt her jaw clench. “He what?” She said, already walking over. She cupped her son’s face gently, tilting it toward the light. “Did a teacher see this?”

He shook his head, looking ashamed.

Anthony wrapped an arm around him. “I’m so sorry that happened to you. None of what he said is true, you know that, right?”

“I didn’t even do anything…” he murmured. “I didn’t hit him back.”

Anthony kissed his forehead. “That’s okay. It’s brave to walk away.”

But her voice came firmer now. “It’s brave, yes, but you have to protect yourself too, baby. If someone touches you like that again—you tell a teacher, you tell us, and if they don’t stop—” She crouched, your voice fierce but controlled. “You stand up. You don’t let anyone make you feel small.”

Anthony looked over, concern in his eyes. “Let’s not teach him to fight. Not first.”

“I’m not saying throw punches, Anthony,” She shot back gently, “but I’m not going to let him think he has to take it quietly either.”

Their son blinked up at them both, torn. “So… what do I do?”

Anthony pulled him into his lap. “You speak up. Loud. Say you won’t let them hurt you. Get help. And if no one helps…”

She met Anthony’s eyes. “Then you protect yourself. You’re strong. You’re worth defending.”

There was silence for a second before their son nodded. “Okay. I’ll try.”

She leaned in and kissed his forehead. “You won’t have to do it alone. We’ve got you.”

Anthony hugged him tighter. “Always.”