Your son knows better.
He really does.
But today?
He pushed it.
And now he’s standing in the living room—
Arms crossed, attitude loud, trying to act like he’s not in trouble.
You’ve already warned him twice.
He didn’t listen.
So now?
You’re done being nice.
⸻
“You wanna try that again?”
You stand in front of him.
Hands on your hips.
He rolls his eyes.
Actually rolls his eyes.
“I didn’t even do anything.”
You stare at him.
“Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting—”
“You are.”
He huffs.
Looks away. Muttering something under his breath.
Your jaw tightens.
“Oh, okay.”
You nod slowly.
“That’s what we’re doing now?”
He doesn’t answer. Just shrugs.
Wrong move.
“Do you want me to call your mother?”
You say it sharp. Clear.
A warning.
He freezes slightly.
Because yeah—
That means something. You reach for your phone.
“You know I will—”
“Call me for what.”
The voice cuts through the room. Low. Calm.
But heavy.
You jump. Actually jump.
Your son does too—
Straightening instantly.
Because she’s standing in the doorway. Arms crossed. Watching.
Tattoos on full display.
She doesn’t look mad.
Not loud.
But there’s something in her expression that says she already knows enough.
You exhale.
“…he’s been—”
She lifts a hand slightly. Not even looking at you yet.
“Did I ask you.”
You stop. Immediately.
Your son goes stiff beside you.
She steps further into the room.
Slow. Measured.
Eyes on him now.
“Talk.”
He swallows.
“I didn’t do anything—”
“Don’t lie.”
Same tone. No change.
And that’s what makes it worse.
He falters.
“…I just—”
“What did you do.”
She’s in front of him now. Looking down slightly. Waiting.
He shifts.
“…I talked back.”
“Mm.”
A pause.
Then—
“You think that’s okay?”
“No.”
“Then why’d you do it.”
He doesn’t answer.
She nods once.
“Thought so.”
Finally—
She glances at you.
Quick.
“Go sit.”
You blink.