People don’t even try to hide it sometimes.

The double-take. The whisper. The nudge. The pause in their step like they’re doing math in their head, trying to figure out what’s “different.”

He’s used to it. Honestly, more than I am. I still feel it in my stomach—that heat, that slow burn of wanting to protect him and knowing I can’t shield him from every hallway or checkout line.

He always beats me to it.

The other day, someone at the grocery store stared too long. My son, without missing a beat, looked up and said, “It’s okay, you can ask.”

The man blinked. Awkward. Then asked: “Does it hurt?”

And my son laughed—actually laughed. “Nope. I just came this way. Like a limited edition.”

We both grinned. And for once, so did the stranger.

That’s how he is. He disarms people. He owns his space before they decide how to size him up.

But there’s always one question that still stops me cold.

It’s not rude or mean. It’s honest. Sometimes it’s from another parent. Sometimes it’s a kid.

They ask: “If you could change him… would you?”

I hate that one.

Not because I don’t have an answer. But because every time I do, it feels like I have to pick a side between loving him as he is and admitting how hard it can be.

My son, Luca, was born with a craniofacial difference. His jaw didn’t form fully. His cheekbones sit a little higher, his left ear didn’t develop. He had his first surgery before he turned two. He’s ten now. And he’s already had six.

He doesn’t remember the first three. I remember all of them.

He calls the hospital “his upgrade place.” He tells people he’s like Iron Man but without the suit.

I still flinch every time the anesthesia kicks in.

But Luca? He wakes up asking for pancakes.

I remember once, when he was six, we were at the park and a group of older kids pointed and laughed. One of them even called him a “monster.” My fists clenched so tightly I left half-moon marks in my palms. But before I could even get up to say something, Luca walked over and stood right in front of them.

“I’m not a monster,” he said. “But I’ve got better hearing than you think. And that wasn’t very smart.”

There was a silence. Then, the smallest boy in the group mumbled an apology. The others followed.

They ended up playing together for an hour.

That night, I asked him how he stayed so calm.

He shrugged. “You told me once that people are mirrors. Sometimes they just don’t know how to reflect you right away.”

That was something I said? I barely remembered saying it. But he did. He always remembers the small things.

Last year, during a school play, he played a talking tree. He wore a huge foam trunk and had two lines. He forgot the first one and just waved. The audience laughed. Not at him, but with him.

Later, his teacher told me he had the highest vote count for any audition role. She said, “Kids gravitate to him. He’s just… safe. And fun. And wise. Way beyond his years.”

I smiled. But inside, I ached a little.

Because that wisdom? It came at a cost.

It came from surgeries. From recovery days where he couldn’t smile because of stitches. From moments when he asked why people moved away from him in pictures. From looking in mirrors and saying, “I look different. But I don’t feel different. Why is that hard for people to get?”

And still, he smiles.

He has this habit of naming everything. His wheelchair during recovery was called “Speedy.” His hearing aid is “Buzz.” Even his facial scars have nicknames—“Map” and “Zippy.”

We were at the library one afternoon when a little girl pointed at him and asked her mom, “What’s wrong with that boy’s face?”

The mom looked horrified. I prepared myself to step in.

But Luca turned around and said, “It’s okay. Nothing’s wrong with it. It just tells a cooler story.”

The girl looked confused.

Luca bent down and whispered, “It’s like a superhero origin. You don’t see it now, but one day, there’s gonna be a whole movie about me.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. The girl did too.

And yet, as strong and light-hearted as he is, there are still days that weigh on him.

One night, after brushing his teeth, he looked at himself in the mirror and said, “Do you think people will ever stop staring?”

I said, “Maybe not. But some of them will start smiling instead.”

He nodded. “That’d be nice.”

But even Luca has his own version of that “one question.”

We were at the dentist, and a boy a few years older than him said, “If you could look normal tomorrow, would you?”

Luca blinked. And for the first time in a while, he didn’t have an answer right away.

He looked at me. I stayed silent. It wasn’t mine to answer.

Then he said, “Maybe. For a day. Just to see what it feels like. But then I’d want to switch back. ’Cause I’ve worked hard to be me.”

I cried later. Quietly. In the car.

Because what do you do when your child teaches you more about strength than any book or mentor ever could?

Last month, we were invited to a community talent night. Luca decided to do stand-up comedy.

Yes, really.

I tried to talk him into playing piano or telling a story. But he insisted.

He stood up there, mic wobbling a little in his hand, and said, “Hi, I’m Luca. I know what you’re thinking. Did this kid fight a bear or just have the coolest origin story ever?”

The room erupted.

Then he added, “I didn’t fight a bear. Yet. But I did fight self-doubt. And that’s worse.”

More laughter. Some cheers.

He ended with, “If you ever feel like you don’t fit in, remember… neither does peanut butter in the fridge. And we still love it.”

He got a standing ovation.

On the drive home, I asked him how he came up with those jokes.

He said, “They’re just stuff I say to myself when I feel weird. I figured someone else might need them too.”

The twist in all of this?

The more people stare at him… the more they see him.

His school’s guidance counselor once told me that two other students with differences came to her saying they felt okay to be themselves after seeing Luca handle things.

One of them started wearing his hearing aids again. The other stopped using his hoodie to hide his face.

A mom messaged me on Facebook and said, “Your son gave mine the courage to go back to school.”

And I think back to that one question.

Would I change him?

And my answer has changed too.

No.

Because Luca isn’t broken. He’s becoming.

And while I’d erase his pain if I could, I wouldn’t take away his fire. His humor. His perspective. The way he lifts a room by simply entering it.

He’s the kind of person this world doesn’t deserve yet desperately needs.

A few days ago, we were walking past a group of teenagers at the mall. They turned to stare. One of them whispered something and giggled.

Before I could even process it, another girl in the group turned around and said to them, “What’s your problem? He looks amazing.”

They shut up.

Luca looked up at me. “Maybe the world is learning.”

I smiled. “Maybe you’re the one teaching it.”

That night, he drew a picture of himself with a cape and a speech bubble that said, “Be kind, or be quiet.”

It’s hanging on our fridge now.

I still brace myself when we go out. But less than I used to.

Because I’ve started doing what he does.

Meeting people where they are. Giving them a second to adjust. A second to see.

And when they ask questions—when they really want to know—I try to welcome it.

Because curiosity can lead to connection. And connection is how we change the script.

The question that used to stop me cold?

It doesn’t anymore.

Because every time I look at my son, I see an answer that is complete, powerful, and full of life.

He is not a “what if.”

He is a “look at this.”

Look at this courage. Look at this love. Look at this light that refuses to be dimmed.

If you ever meet us on the street and feel like staring…

Say hi instead.

You’ll be surprised what you might learn.

And who knows? Maybe you’ll even laugh.

Because that’s what Luca does—he reminds people to laugh, to ask, to understand, and to grow.

So here’s your reminder: sometimes the ones who look a little different are the ones who help us see the most.

Thanks for reading. If this story touched you, go ahead—share it with someone. You never know who might need to hear it. And hey, maybe leave a like too. For Luca. For the limited editions. For all of us learning to reflect better.