As Harold and I walked through town, people stopped to shake his hand, offering words of encouragement and thanks. The woman who had once whispered to her children now nodded in respect as we passed by. Harold stood a little taller, his dignity restored.

In the end, it wasn’t just about Harold or me. It was about justice, about ensuring that no one else would have to endure what he had. And as we sat together on our porch, watching the sun set on another day, I knew we had made a difference. We had reminded them — and ourselves — of the power we held when we chose to stand up for what was right.