I wince.
Yeah, that’s on me.
I’ve said the same sentence to Remy more than once. When he’s done something idiotic like forgetting to latch the pasture gate or leaving the tractor lights on overnight. Rhys must’ve heard it and filed it away.
“He hit me first!” Rhys insists, turning in his chair to glare at Jordan. “Uncle Remy says that if someone hits you first, you’re allowed to punch back. It’s called self-defense.”
Sweet mercy?—
I’m going to kill Remy.
Or at least have words with my brother about what is appropriate to teach a seven-year-old.
But also… the primitive part of my brain, the part that doesn’t care about modern parenting or proper conflict resolution, is proud. My son stood up for himself. Defended himself against a kid who said cruel things and threw the first punch.
I catch Faye watching me, and I know she sees the pride I’m trying to hide. And she’s not impressed.
“Is that what happened?” Julie says, stunned. “That’s not—Jordan wouldn’t?—”
“Mrs. Beeman,” Principal Hughes interrupts, “Jordan has already admitted to starting the physical part of the altercation.”
Julie sputters, face going red. “Jordie would never—he’s not a violent child?—”
“I’m not saying he is,” Hughes cuts in, still calm. “But the facts are evident. Jordan instigated both verbally and physically.”
The principal looks at Rhys now, and his expression softens a fraction. “That said, Rhys, self-defense applies when your life is in danger. It’s not a free-for-all to respond to violence with more violence.”
Rhys deflates a little, shoulders sagging.
Hughes shifts his attention to me and the Beemans. “I’ve decided not to suspend either boy. Both will apologize to each other, and they’ll attend a special two-hour workshop on non-violent conflict resolution next week.”
I speak up, voice scraping with disbelief that they’re being treated like they share the blame. “Shouldn’t the school also have a workshop about not insulting other kids’ families?”
Principal Hughes’s gaze flicks to Faye, and I get the distinct impression that she already suggested this and was shot down. The muscle in her jaw tightens, confirming my suspicion.
“Miss Rose has expressed similar concerns,” Hughes admits reluctantly. “She’ll be working with our counselor on an empathy and inclusion program.”
Of course she has. Because Faye actually gives a damn about these kids, unlike administrators who just want to check boxes and avoid lawsuits.
“Now,” Hughes says, turning to the boys, “it’s time for your apologies.”
Rhys looks at me, his eyes saying This is bullshit, Dad. And it is. He shouldn’t have to apologize for defending himself. But that’s not how the world works.
“Go ahead, buddy,” I coax.
Rhys turns to Jordan, his little jaw set with stubborn Evans pride. “I’m sorry I punched you. And called you an ass.”
“Jordan?” Hughes prompts.
Jordan mumbles something unintelligible.
“Louder, please,” Hughes chides.
“Sorry I punched you,” Jordan mumbles.
“And?” The principal huffs, exasperated.
Jordan’s face flushes red. “And I’m sorry for calling you a crybaby and saying your mom abandoned you.”
