Dear little boy in the McDonald’s:

I heard your mother first. She was yelling, alternately at you and who I presume was your father. Neither parent seemed particularly sound. You were crying and she wanted the man to take you, which was apparently why she was angry. She kept leaning into your stroller and hissing obscenities in your face. I can’t imagine you are older than two.

Our circumstances last night could not have been more different. I was out with my friends after graduating from high school — we were celebrating. I was still in my gown. But my heart aches for you. I can see you will have many more challenges than I did in getting to where I stood last night — on a stage, receiving my diploma.

I don’t know what I can do to make your life better, happier, easier — but I want you to know that you can make it. I believe you can. That’s why I’m writing this, because even though I don’t know you, or your family, or exactly what challenges beset you, I want the Universe to know someone’s rooting for you.

Good luck, little boy.

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