On a surprisingly sunny winter day in Connecticut, the beach bustles with masked children, grouped in clusters like excited pups released for play. My son, Leo, grips my hand and scans the playground for potential friends. “Maybe I’ll find someone at the swings. I’ve had good luck there before,” he declares, breaking free from my side to join the fun.
I can’t help but feel skeptical. The passive approach of waiting for others to initiate friendship never worked for me. Yet, I remind myself that I wasn’t an eight-year-old boy. He bounds toward the swings, pumping higher and higher, while I settle onto a nearby bench.
A blond boy in a white shirt approaches the swings, igniting a spark of hope in Leo’s blue eyes, but the boy walks past him. Leo continues to swing, and I watch silently, resisting the urge to intervene or project my worries onto him. I genuinely hope he connects with someone today.
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