The Summer I Discovered What Real Strength Means
My dad always said real strength is standing up for those who can’t stand up for themselves. He said it while braiding my hair before school and again as he taught me how to change the oil on his motorcycle. To our small town of Cedar Lane, he seemed tough—six-foot-three, covered in tattoos, and wearing the Iron Eagles motorcycle club patch. But to me, he was the kindest man alive, the one who made butterfly-shaped pancakes on Saturday mornings and read bedtime stories with silly voices.
Then, three years ago, everything changed when a drunk driver took him from us. My mom was seven months pregnant with my baby brother. After the funeral, the bikers helped with expenses, but when their support faded, it was just Mom, my sister, me, and the newborn to care for. We learned to stretch every meal, patch up worn clothes, and keep moving forward even when it felt impossible.
By this summer, I thought I had seen all the heartbreak I could handle. Then Ethan, a quiet classmate, came to school with red, swollen eyes. At lunch, he finally whispered, “My mom has cancer. Stage three. She needs treatment now, but we can’t afford it.”
That night, I lay awake, hearing Dad’s words in my mind: protect those who need it. Ethan’s mom needed help—and if no one else would, I had to.
