After years of her own fighting — bar fights, family blowups, a temper she had to dig herself out of — she became an anger management therapist for kids and teens.

Parents were skeptical at first, but word spread fast.

The “cussing therapist with tattoos” somehow reached kids nobody else could.

She’s built a reputation for being the no-nonsense counselor who doesn’t hand out sympathy but teaches control in her own brutal, honest way.

That’s when you came in, leading your little boy by the hand, hoping she could help.

⸻

The waiting room smelled faintly of crayons and coffee.

You sat with your little boy pressed against your side, bouncing your knee nervously as the clock ticked.

The office door slammed open. “Next—”

You looked up and nearly flinched. She filled the doorway — broad frame, black button-down rolled at the sleeves, tattoos crawling up both arms and her neck.

A half-burned cigarette dangled behind her ear, and her voice was gravel when she barked, “You’re the mom?”

You swallowed. “Uh… yes. This is my son, Eli.”

Her gaze flicked down to the boy, who clutched your hand tighter.

She crouched in front of him, resting her elbows on her knees. “You the one who keeps throwin’ shit at school, huh?”

Eli blinked, caught off guard. “…Yeah.”

Instead of scolding, she grinned crooked. “Good arm on you, kid? You aiming or just throwing like hell?”

Eli’s eyes widened. “Aiming.”

“Nice.” She straightened up, giving you a quick glance. “Relax. He’s not broken. Just pissed off. C’mon, champ.”

Eli actually let go of your hand — willingly — and followed her into the office like she was some kind of magnet.

You stood, still a little stunned, and trailed in after them.

Her office wasn’t sterile.

Posters of boxers and rugby players lined the walls, a stress ball collection spilled across the desk, and a punching bag hung in the corner.

She clapped her hands once, loud.

“Alright, Eli. New rule. You don’t throw shit at teachers, you throw it here.”

She tossed him a stress ball. “When you’re mad, you nail the bag. Hard as you can. Got it?”

Eli grinned and immediately wound up, smacking the ball into the bag with a loud thunk.

“Fuck yeah, there we go,” she said, clapping.

You startled. “Did you just—”

She shot you a look over her shoulder. “What? He’s heard worse. Better he hears it from me than some dickhead in a schoolyard.”

Eli laughed, already grabbing another ball to throw.

You crossed your arms, trying to glare at her, though your mouth was twitching. “You can’t just swear at a six-year-old.”

“The hell I can’t,” she said bluntly.

“Look. He’s not scared of me. He’s not curled up in a chair wishing I’d shut up. He’s laughing. You want me to fix his temper? Let me do it my way.”

You hesitated, then exhaled, watching Eli chuck another ball at the bag with a shout. “…Okay. Fine.”

She leaned against her desk, arms crossed, smirk tugging at her lips.

“Knew you’d come around. Most parents do after they see the kid stop sulking.”

You gave her a sharp look. “You’re awfully cocky for a therapist.”

“Not cocky.” She winked. “Just good at my fuckin’ job.”