We were standing in line at the grocery store, and my son was right beside me, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He always gets nervous in crowded places. His little fingers fidget, his words come out too fast, and sometimes he asks the same question over and over.
That day, it was, “Mom, how much longer? Mom, when will it be our turn?” His voice was soft, but repetitive.
Then, out of nowhere, the woman in front of us—an older lady, maybe in her late fifties—snapped her head around. With an annoyed sigh, she hissed, “Can you PLEASE tell your kid to be quiet? Some of us don’t need to hear him every second.”
My son froze. His eyes went wide, and his little hands immediately covered his mouth. My heart broke in that instant.
I saw him shrink in on himself, the way he always does when the world feels too big for him. He wasn’t being loud. He wasn’t being rude. He was just trying to calm himself down.
I leaned down and whispered, “You’re okay. Don’t listen to her. You’re not doing anything wrong.” But he was already trembling.
Something in me snapped.
I straightened up, looked right at her, and said, “Do you have ANY idea what it’s like for a child to battle anxiety every single day? He’s not talking to bother you. He’s talking to survive this moment.”
Her face flushed, but she tried to roll her eyes. “Still, it’s disruptive.”
That’s when my voice shook, not with fear—but with the kind of fury only a mother carries.
“Disruptive? No. What’s disruptive is an adult crushing a child’s spirit because you don’t have the patience for kindness. What’s disruptive is someone deciding their comfort matters more than a little boy’s courage.”
She muttered something under her breath, but she didn’t say another word. My son leaned against me, still quiet, still small.
When we finally left, he whispered, “Mom, am I really that annoying?”
And that… that’s when the knife twisted in my chest.
I knelt down, hugged him tight, and said, “No. You’re brave. You’re stronger than most adults. And don’t you ever let anyone make you feel otherwise.”
But later that night, I cried. Because no matter how many times I tell him he’s enough, the world keeps trying to teach him he’s too much.
And the cruelest part? I don’t know how many more “aunts” like her he’ll have to meet before he starts believing them instead of me.
