Nehemiah's Sunshine

Nehemiah’s Sunshine

Nehemiah wasn’t the kind of boy you noticed right away.

He wasn’t loud. Didn’t run with the wild kids or throw his head back laughing in the corridors. He was quiet—observant. The type who sat with his chin tucked, one shoelace always undone, sketching strange, beautiful things in the corners of his notebooks.

I was his teacher for a year and a half. Long enough to understand the difference between kids who are simply shy, and kids who are surviving something.

Nehemiah had shadows under his eyes that didn't belong to a child. They made him look older, like he’d seen things he had no language for yet. And yet, he smiled sometimes. At butterflies. At chalk dust. At the window when sunlight pooled on the desk in front of him. I began calling him “Sunshine” one day, without thinking. He didn’t smile when I said it, not at first. But a few days later, he wrote it on the front of his workbook.

Sunshine (Nehemiah B.)

That’s when I knew it mattered.

There’s a special kind of ache you carry when you work with children like him—the ones no one protects properly. His clothes were always clean, but his skin was too pale in winter. His lunchbox was either empty or packed with dry cereal. Once, when I gently asked if he was eating enough at home, he said, “I try not to bother my mom when she’s sad.”

That sentence still lives in my spine.

By March, Nehemiah had attached himself to me with a quiet kind of desperation. He’d linger after class, asking if I needed help erasing the board, or organizing books. Sometimes he’d stay silent and just sit beside my desk, legs swinging. I never rushed him. He didn’t need answers. He needed time.

I began to suspect something wasn’t right at home.

He never spoke badly about his mother, but he described her like someone describing a fading photograph—outlines with no color. “She’s just tired a lot,” he said once. “Like she’s asleep even when she’s awake.”

He started drawing suns more often. Yellow ones. Big, beaming, radiant ones—sometimes with a face that looked suspiciously like his.

One afternoon, during indoor recess, he gave me a folded drawing.

On one side, there was a woman standing on the edge of a cliff. She was drawn in dull gray crayon. Her eyes were closed. Her arms limp.

On the other side, a boy with a giant golden sun behind him stretched out a hand to her. The caption read: “Sunshine helps her remember.”

I wanted to cry. But I smiled and said it was beautiful. Because that’s what he needed me to say.

Two weeks later, Nehemiah didn’t come to school.

No call. No note. No explanation.

By the third day, I asked the principal to check on him. She returned with tight lips and watery eyes.

Child Protective Services had taken Nehemiah into custody. A neighbor reported screams from the apartment and a man’s voice yelling. Apparently, he wasn’t supposed to be there. The mother didn’t deny it. Just sat on the couch like a statue while they removed her son.

That night, I went home and sat in my car for almost an hour.

I knew this might happen. I’d seen the signs. But knowing doesn’t make it easier when it finally unfolds.

For weeks, I heard nothing.

The school sent a substitute for the remainder of the term. I cleaned out my desk earlier than planned and left a note tucked in Nehemiah’s drawer:

"Dear Sunshine, You are more than what happens around you. You are good. You are light. Keep shining. –Miss L"

I didn’t expect to hear from him again.

But six months later, in August, a letter arrived. No return address.

The handwriting was messy but familiar.

Dear Miss L,

I live with a new family now. They have chickens and a garden and let me plant tomatoes. I named one of the chickens 'Captain Beakface.' They think it’s funny.

I have a dog too. Her name is Clover. She follows me everywhere.

They said I can go to a new school, but I asked if I could stay in the same district so maybe one day I’ll see you again.

I still draw suns. But now they’re bigger. And sometimes, I draw myself inside them.

Thank you for seeing me.

Love, Nehemiah (aka Sunshine)

I keep that letter in my top drawer, next to his drawing. Some days, when the world feels heavy, I open it and remember: we don’t always get to rescue people. But sometimes, if we’re lucky, we help them find their own way to the light.

And that’s enough.

The story end kay mujay pata lagay kay yahatak story hay.