Take this heartbreaking story. A seven-year-old boy died weighing 255 pounds.

Seven.

Years.

Old.

Two hundred fifty-five pounds.

Folks, that's not "a little chunky." That's not "he's just big-boned." That's not "he'll grow into it."

That's a fourth grader who weighed more than the average NFL running back.

And somehow...every adult in his orbit found the courage to say absolutely nothing.

That's modern progress.

We've built a society where people can identify sixteen genders before they can identify child abuse.

Think about the insanity of it.

If a kid showed up every day with two black eyes, everybody would know something's wrong.

If a kid showed up starving, ribs sticking out, CPS would be called before lunch.

But if he gains two hundred extra pounds before second grade...

"Well...we don't want to fat-shame."

Fat-shame?

How about parent-shame?

Because somewhere along the line we've confused compassion with cowardice.

The Left has spent years teaching America that every uncomfortable truth is somehow violence.

Don't tell people they're overweight.

Don't tell parents they're failing.

Don't judge.

Don't interfere.

Don't question.

You do you.

That's become the Democratic Party's national anthem.

Except here's the problem.

Sometimes "you do you" becomes "you bury your kid."

This child's weight didn't sneak up on anybody.

He didn't wake up on Tuesday and suddenly weigh 255 pounds.

Every doctor saw him.