We’d saved for months to afford it.
He played almost every day, sometimes repeating the same melody until every note sounded perfect.
So when I entered his bedroom carrying fresh laundry and noticed the empty guitar stand, I became concerned.
After school, I questioned him.
“Julian, where’s your guitar?”
He avoided my eyes.
“Mom… I sold it.”
I nearly dropped the laundry.
“You sold your Fender? Why?”
“Because Maya needed another wheelchair.”
Maya was a sweet girl in his eighth-grade class who had used a wheelchair for several years.
Julian explained that hers was badly worn out.
The wheels frequently jammed, the seat was damaged, and moving between classrooms had become increasingly difficult.
“Last week, she almost missed lunch because the wheels kept getting stuck,” he told me.
Some classmates even laughed at the sounds her chair made.
“She pretends it doesn’t bother her,” Julian said. “But I know it does.”
