Chapter 5 - THE HARDBOY RULES
Ethan did not call them “hard-boy rules” every time.
Sometimes:
Grandpa rules.
Sometimes:
Practice rules.
Dr. Grant avoided turning his phrase into family slogan.
Good.
But she helped us understand what Ethan believed.
Rule one:
Crying makes practice longer.
Rule two:
If you say “I can’t,” start again.
Rule three:
No Felix during practice.
Rule four:
No Mommy calls because Mommy “rescues.”
Rule five:
Snacks after finishing.
Rule six:
Grandma can help only when Grandpa says.
Rule seven:
Daddy did it too.
That last one made my skin crawl.
Not because Richard told Ethan about ordinary childhood.
Because he used my presumed consent.
Daddy did it.
Daddy turned out fine.
Daddy passed.
Therefore:
You must.
I asked Dr. Grant:
“Can I tell Ethan I didn’t agree?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Simple.”
That night:
“Buddy, Grandpa said Daddy did those rules when he was little.”
Ethan nodded.
“Did Daddy tell Grandpa to do those rules with you?”
“No?”
He sounded unsure.
“No. I didn’t.”
His shoulders lowered.
“Okay.”
Then:
“Did Daddy like rules?”
I thought.
“I don’t remember liking them.”
“Did you cry?”
“Yes.”
His eyes widened.
“You?”
I laughed softly.
“Me.”
“Grandpa says you stopped.”
“Sometimes people stop crying because they feel better. Sometimes because they’re scared to cry.”
He thought.
“Which?”
“I don’t know yet.”
That was enough.
Then anger course.
First session irritated me.
Facilitator said:
“What happened before you broke the window?”
“My father destroyed my son’s bicycle.”
“That is what he did. What happened inside you?”
“I got angry.”
“What did you believe the bat would accomplish?”
“Make him understand.”
“Did it?”
“No.”
“What did Ethan understand?”
“That adults break things when mad.”
There.
Not complicated.
Then facilitator:
“Your father used destruction to teach toughness. You used destruction to teach accountability.”
I stiffened.
“They’re not the same.”
“Intent differs.”
“Yes.”
“Behavior?”
I looked away.
“Similar.”
That was the work.
Then Laura.
She admitted in counseling she had resented me before birthday.
“Why?”
“Because every time your dad criticized Ethan, you’d say ‘that’s just Dad.’”
I stared.
“Examples?”
Thanksgiving:
Ethan cried at loud blender.
Dad called him delicate.
I laughed awkwardly.
Christmas:
Ethan wanted Laura to help open toy packaging.
Dad said:
“Let him struggle.”
I said:
“He’s fine.”
Easter:
Batting practice.
Ethan hid.
I told Laura:
“Dad just wants bonding.”
She had been signaling.
I had been translating Richard too.
Not as aggressively as Helen.
Same reflex.
That hurt.
I said:
“I’m sorry.”
Laura:
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you push?”
“I didn’t want to become the wife who hates her in-laws.”
That sentence.
Family stereotypes keep people quiet too.
Then we reviewed childcare decision.
Why grandparents every Thursday?
Convenient.
Trusted.
Free.
They asked.
Ethan seemed okay mostly.
No reason to suspect.
Fine.
No self-punishment.
But future:
No caregiver who rejects our parenting rules.
No secret discipline.
No removing safety gear.
No withholding food/water for performance.
Simple.
Then Richard’s property case.
He accepted diversion for destroying bicycle.
Restitution $210.
Anger-management? Prosecutor required six-hour class.
Dad refused at first.
“If Michael gets class, I get class?”
Yes.
Eventually accepted to avoid conviction.
He paid us.
I used money to replace bike?
No.
Ethan did not want.
We put $210 in his savings.
No symbolism.
Then my own property case.
I paid $1,742 for window.
Completed anger course and community service.
Diversion.
Dad received his money.
He still told relatives:
“Michael attacked me.”
I had not.
But from his perspective, bat near car felt like threat.
I could understand.
That did not make words accurate.
Then Aunt Susan—Mom’s sister—called me.
“You need to know something.”
Another family witness.
She said Helen had contacted her.
“She’s scared Richard will file for visitation.”
“Why?”
“Because if he does, things come out.”
“What things?”
Susan sighed.
“Michael, your mother kept notebooks.”
My pulse jumped.
“What notebooks?”
“Your father made her track your ‘discipline’ when you were little.”
I stopped.
Track.
Not journal.
Not diary.
A system.
“Where are they?”
“Your mom has them.”
“Why would she keep them?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you seen?”
“One. Years ago.”
“What was in it?”
“Your name.”
My throat tightened.
“And?”
“Rules.”
There.
Then Susan said:
“I told Helen to burn them thirty years ago.”
She didn’t.
Why?
Maybe evidence.
Maybe guilt.
Maybe because part of her still believed in them.
Susan continued:
“She says Richard started a new one for Ethan.”
I stopped breathing.
“When?”
“Months ago.”
That was Chapter 10 approaching.
Not a spontaneous grandpa overreaction.
May you like
A documented system.
And my mother knew where the notebook was.
