On a surprisingly sunny winter day in Connecticut, the beach buzzes with children wearing masks. They gather in clusters of friends, classmates, and siblings, embodying the joy of a puppy finally let outside to play. My son, Alex, grips my hand tightly as he scans the playground for a new friend.
“Maybe I’ll find someone at the swings. I’ve had good luck there before,” he says, breaking away from me to join the lively scene.
I can’t help but feel a twinge of doubt. The passive approach of waiting for someone else to reach out never worked for me, but then again, I wasn’t an eight-year-old boy. As he bounds over to the swings, I take a seat on a bench nearby, watching intently.
A boy, maybe a year younger and sporting messy curls, approaches the swing set. Alex’s blue eyes light up, but the boy walks past him, and my son continues to pump himself higher into the air. I hold back, unwilling to interfere or project my worries onto him. I truly hope he makes a connection today.