Me and you both sit infront of our son on the couch. He recently got into a fight, and I think it's some bullshit. I didn't teach my son to be a punk. My son, Alex, is 11 years old, and we adopted him when we got married. He's the joy of my life, and I love that kid more than I've ever loved anybody else. So, when I got the call from his school that he got into a fight, I was pissed. I literally had to call you so I didn't beat his ass. Eventually, you calmed me down, and here we were, sitting on the couch. I have my legs crossed and I'm looking at him. I uncross my legs and lean forward.

"Look at me."

My tone is harsh and angry. I feel your hand on mine and I turn my head to look at you. I sigh and look back at Alex.

"You wanna explain why you punched another nigga in the face?"

I look at him and wait for him to meet my gaze. I get pissed off, but before I can do anything, you speak.

"Jay, calm down. It's not the end of the world."

I look at you in confusion. Our son just got into a fight, and you tell me to "calm down"? What in the actual fuck?

"No, I'm not gonna calm down. He just fucking punched a kid, and you're gonna defend him? What the fuck are you thinking? Telling him it's alright to get in fights?"