My little boy loved the bus. Every morning, he would run to the stop, his backpack bouncing, shoes untied, as if the bus were a rocket ready to take off.
But for some time, something had changed. He had become silent. His colorful drawings were now gray and sad. Every morning, he held my hand a little longer, as if to protect himself.đ±
I didnât know why, until that day. On the sidewalk, I saw him getting on the bus, trying to appear brave, avoiding the gaze of the children who had been teasing him for weeks: too small, too quiet, too different.
Every evening, he came home with his shoulders hunched and a distant look. I overheard fragments of what he was going through, words thrown between laughter, cruel remarks that froze my heart: âNo one loves you here,â âGo away,â âYouâre weirdâ⊠Those words echoed in my head long after he had fallen asleep.
One morning, I decided enough was enough. I walked him to the bus, holding his hand tightly. When we reached the driverâŠ
As I climbed the steps of the bus, I froze, breathless. I was shocked by what I saw⊠đ±
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The real reason my son dreaded the bus became clear that morning. The driver had been changed, and he wasnât just strict: he had transformed the inside of the bus into a terrifying space. đ±
Everywhere, he had placed strange objects and disturbing images, such as dolls with piercing eyes, frightening masks, and other mysterious trinkets. These objects werenât there to decorate; they were there to intimidate the children and force them to stay seated without moving.
Every day, he would repeat what would happen if they made noise or disobeyed: âIf you scream or get up, these objects will catch youâŠâ
These threats, combined with the sinister stares of the objects, turned the bus into a real nightmare for the little ones. My son, sensitive and imaginative, saw these warnings as real and felt constantly threatened, unable to relax or enjoy the ride.
It was more than simple discipline: it was a climate of systematic fear. The children sat frozen, whispering to each other, paralyzed by the fear of what might happen.
This oppressive atmosphere explained his refusal to get on the bus, his silence, and his fear every morning. It wasnât just the fear of his classmates, but the terror imposed by an adult who was supposed to ensure their safety that had shaken my son.
