What’s a job you would like to do for just one day?

If I could have any job for a day, I’d want to be someone who gives second chances. Not just handing them out, but helping people see the moment they could choose again. A job where I’d stand at the crossroads of a bad decision and say, “It’s okay. Let’s try that again.”

Maybe I’d be called a Restoration Guide or a Keeper of Second Chances. My work wouldn’t involve punishment, but perspective. Not erasing mistakes, but walking people back to the moment before the lie, the shove, the eye roll, the crossed-out face.

I think I might’ve already done that job, just for a moment.

The Boy with the Crossed Out Face

Today, I had to walk through the middle school cafeteria. Something I typically avoid at all costs. The noise, the chaos, the unpredictable energy of it all sets off something in me. Old memories. Childhood wounds. And yet, there I was, cutting through the crowd of voices and trays and motion.

I noticed two boys play-fighting, fists raised, bodies jostling in that careless, “just kidding” way that still has weight behind it. I don’t like that. I never have. As a kid, I got knocked down during someone else’s game, and that impact never quite left me.

One of the boys caught my eye and immediately returned to his seat. The other didn’t. He strutted, eye-rolled, and tossed disrespect like confetti. A power struggle with a child isn’t something I seek out, but there it was. So I asked for his name. He deflected. Over and over: “What do you care?”

I looked at the badge around his neck. His face was crossed out in pen. I felt something deep in my chest. Whether it was meant as a joke or something darker, it sent a message. I don’t want to be seen.

Then he told me it wasn’t his badge. Switched with a friend’s. And I could’ve argued with him in that loud space, but I chose not to. I pointed toward the office. We walked. He stomped. He repeated the question. What did I even do?

Once the door shut behind us and the silence took hold, I said, “Sit down so I can talk to you like a human.”

Then I got very clear. “The reason you’re here is because you lied about your name. That is not ok.” I paused to let that land, then followed with truth. “You’re not in trouble. Even though—let’s be honest—your attitude, the disrespect, the lying, and that face with your fist up and ready to throw dirty blueberries at your friend? Yeah, that easily could have earned you something.” I smiled gently. “But that’s not what this is about.”

I told him he needed to always tell the truth. That as a teacher and a parent, my first thought was safety. My second thought was ethics. And my third was accountability.

I told him I have a son his age. That if my boy ever acted this way, I’d hope someone, anyone, would take a moment and remind him of what matters. That the truth matters. That he matters.

His posture changed. Eyes filled. Maybe just for a moment. Maybe enough.

I told him to go enjoy his lunch.

I don’t know what happened after that. But I do know what happened to me. Something softened. Something that’s been hardened by weeks of exhaustion, injustice, and watching adults fail kids left and right.

Today, I saw someone’s child and I imagined my own. I gave what I would want given. Not a lecture. Not control. Just a moment of dignity. Human to human.

And I hope, wherever he is right now, he remembers what it felt like to be seen.