Yesterday, something happened that reminded me how fragile and sacred our everyday routines really are.

It was one of those classic Canadian afternoons—the kind where winter refuses to decide what it wants to be. Wet snow, sharp wind, grey skies. The kind of weather that soaks into your bones and makes everything feel heavier. I stood at the bus stop like I do every school day, hands in my pockets, watching the road, waiting for the familiar sight of the yellow bus.

The bus stopped.
The door opened.
My son stepped down.

And instead of his usual smile, he started crying.

I froze.

If you’re a parent, you know that moment. That instant when your heart skips and your mind runs faster than your feet. He doesn’t cry when he gets off the bus. He always smiles. Always waves. Always looks for me with that calm certainty that I’ll be there.

I asked him what was wrong. Between tears, he told me he had run for the bus in front of the school and slipped on the ice and snow. I asked if he was hurt. He said his hand hurt.

I looked at his hand—and my first reaction was the wrong one. I noticed he wasn’t wearing his gloves. I scolded him. Out of fear. Out of habit. Out of that instinct to control the small things when something bigger feels out of reach.

Then I saw his hand properly.
Swollen. Slightly twisted.

Everything else disappeared.

We moved fast after that. Home. Taxi. Emergency room. Prayers whispered silently while trying to stay calm. Hoping it was nothing serious. Hoping we were overreacting.

We weren’t.

A broken wrist. A cast. Hospital lights. The quiet professionalism of doctors who see this every day, and the quiet bravery of a child who is living it for the first time.

We came home changed.

Today—my wife and I are still in shock. Not because of the cast, or the injury, but because our favorite human was hurt. Because no matter how much you try to protect them, life still finds ways to test their strength—and yours.

And yet, what I’ve seen in my son since then has humbled me deeply.

This little man is brave.

He mentioned the pain only a few times. No drama. No constant complaints. No asking for attention. What he asked for—without words—was something much simpler and much deeper.

Presence.

He wanted us close. Sitting next to him. Walking slowly beside him. Watching together. Being together. That was it.

And we gave it—fully, instinctively, with all our hearts.

I watched him carefully these past two days. His patience. His calm. His quiet endurance. And I couldn’t stop thinking: our children are often wiser than we are. Stronger than we expect. More honest about what truly matters.

I still can’t stop imagining that school bus ride. The pain he carried quietly all the way home. How he held it together until he saw me—and only then allowed himself to cry. Not because he was weak, but because he felt safe.

That’s when I understood something again, something life keeps reminding me of in different ways: presence is powerful. Sometimes it’s the best medicine we have.

Not explanations.
Not solutions.
Not lectures.

Just being there.

This post is for my son.
For his courage.
For his quiet strength.
For the lesson he taught me without even trying.

Be brave, my boy.
Dad and mom are right here.

GK

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Published by georgi.kisyov

36 thoughts on “The Brave Boy”

  1. What you named so beautifully is something I’ve come to believe as well: presence is a love language, every bit as real as words, service, touch, gifts, or time. In moments like this, children don’t ask for fixing or explaining, they ask for nearness. Your son held it together until he reached the place where he was known and safe, and that alone speaks volumes about the covering you and your wife provide. Scripture says, “A friend loveth at all times,” and I think a parent’s quiet, steady presence is one of the clearest ways that love is lived out. You didn’t just meet his need; you mirrored God’s own way of drawing near in pain. That kind of being-there leaves a mark far deeper than the cast ever will.

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    1. Thank you for these words 🤍
      You named it so clearly — nearness was all he asked for, and it changed everything. If this moment leaves a mark, I hope it’s that quiet knowing that love shows up and stays.
      GK

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  5. Glad everything worked out. Your initial reaction was normal, it happens to all of us because in that instant we think we did not prepare them or forgot to tell them something and we are why he had the injury. I have come across with similar feelings and incidents just like this. One for me was the broken ankle. We do our best in a crazy world and we can’t protect against everything.

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    1. Thank you 🤍
      That means a lot, truly. You’re right — in those first seconds, fear speaks before reason, and it’s something many of us recognize in ourselves. We do our best, even knowing we can’t protect them from everything.
      GK

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  6. Thank-you. Hope he’s OK now. Many years ago, UK, not Canada, a slip on snow and ice, coming home from school on a Friday afternoon. Pain and swelling, then the hospital and a frightening diagnosis. A fracture so bad it would need pinning ? What was wrong ? Brittle bones ? Bad diet ? Given the X-rays, parents couldn’t see any fracture. Surgery,on Monday, at a hospital more than 30 miles away ? Why not our own town ? Rules are rules, go where you’re directed. More snow sorted that out, instead, when the roads were cleared, the local hospital. For the weekend, a heavy white cast, help getting to the bathroom, pain, of course. . Arrive at the hospital fasting, hungry, scared, with a suitcase and Bear. Then the consultant’s exasperation. This child has a sprained ankle !! Bad sprain, needing weeks in a cast, but fear melted. Food first and not just McDonalds, choose anything you like, then a bookshop, for being brave.

    Cost of more grit ?

    .

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    1. Thank you for sharing this 🤍
      What a frightening journey — the waiting, the uncertainty, the fear piling up before anyone really knows. I’m so glad it ended with relief, food, a bookshop, and that quiet reward for bravery we never forget.
      GK

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  8. There will be more incidents like this, so remind yourself of this moment and embrace it every time your son needs your presence. My daughter will be 27-years-old this year. My husband and I still find it necessary to be present for her whenever she needs us. She’s been through some major rough patches in her short life, so we’ve got lots of practice. Our responses are not always appropriate or what is needed at the time, but we (hopefully) learn from our mistakes. At some point, our kids will not have us in their lives. It is our duty to be there for them while we can and help build their strength up so they can pay it forward to their own children one day.

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  12. “What he asked for—without words—was something much simpler and much deeper. Presence. He wanted us close. Sitting next to him. Walking slowly beside him. Watching together. Being together. That was it. And we gave it—fully, instinctively, with all our hearts.”
    “Be brave, my boy. Dad and mom are right here.”

    Kids and moments like this boil it down to what matters – Not us, Not all the other stuff.
    To them – all that matters and as simple as they see it – us together.
    ~ Rosie

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  14. Everything else disappeared. We moved fast after that. Home. Taxi. Emergency room. Prayers whispered silently while trying to stay calm. Hoping it was nothing serious. Hoping we were overreacting. – This one is definitely so parent-coded. The nagging, the anger, the words and advice—nothing matters more than making sure he’s 100 percent fine. Wishing him a speedy recovery. He is such a sweet and brave boy. Just imagine how long he endured the pain on the bus, holding it in until he finally saw you.

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    1. Thank you 🤍
      Yes — that moment really strips everything else away. Knowing how long he carried it quietly on that bus stays with me, and we’re so grateful for your kind wishes as he heals.
      GK

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