Today I let go of a friend.

Not because we disagreed — disagreement is the cost of freedom — but because when the moment came to choose between anger and purpose, he chose anger.

He had shared a story: a gay father standing before a school board, pleading for the protection of children from premature sexualization and the forced celebration of adult topics like gender identity debates in the lives of the young.

I agreed. I thought we could stand together. Surely, this was a cause beyond politics.

But it wasn’t enough for him. He needed a villain with a party label.

He needed this to be not about protecting children, but about condemning Democrats. The fact I am not a Democrat proved immaterial- I did not share his vitriol so I was little better than his declared monsters.

I answered with care. I said division will not save the vulnerable. I said the children do not care about party lines. I said what matters is the shield we build around them, not the banners we wave above ourselves.

In return, he accused me — subtly at first, then not so subtly — of siding with the enemy. No, worse! of supporting the abuse on children.

There is a particular sorrow in moments like these. The sorrow of realizing that someone you respected does not truly want to fix what is broken — they only want a clearer view of the battlefield.

They want a righteous war, not a righteous peace.

So I walked away.

It is easy to be angry. I get angry too. It is easy to find a scapegoat, easy to shout about evil in the abstract while ignoring the simple work of actually protecting what is good.

It is harder to stay focused on solutions instead of blame.

Harder to reach across divides and say: Your child is my child too.

Harder to say: I will fight with anyone who fights for the innocent, and against anyone who uses them for political fuel.

Today I mourn that friendship, but I will not mourn the choice.

Because to stay would be to accept a world where the safety of children is just another weapon in a wider war. Where our most vulnerable and innocent are nothing more than a means to an end, all disguised as righteous and pure intent.

I would rather stand alone, with my arms open to any who wish to protect what is sacred, than stand together with those who only want to destroy. Perhaps my arms will remain empty in the end.

But there is no victory in hatred.

There is no righteousness in rage.

There is only the cause — or the betrayal of it.

I choose the cause.

Even if it costs me every friend I once thought I had.