Chapter 11 - The Slap
My battery charge arrived six weeks after barbecue.
Misdemeanor.
Ambrose had reported.
He had every right.
Some relatives were furious.
“After what he did?”
Yes.
Separate.
The prosecutor offered diversion.
No prior record.
No serious injury.
I had admitted immediately.
Terms:
Anger-management course.
Twenty hours community service.
No unlawful contact with Ambrose.
Restitution for medical expense if any—there was none beyond ice and bruising.
Dismissal after successful completion.
I accepted.
Rafferty asked:
“Do you think that's fair?”
“Yes.”
“You were protecting our son.”
“I was furious because of our son.”
“Same thing.”
“No.”
I looked at him.
“By the time I hit your father, I could have pulled Callum away.”
He knew.
Then Dr. Bell helped explain to Callum.
“Mom hit Grandpa.”
“Yes.”
“Grandpa bad.”
“Grandpa did something unsafe.”
“Then hit okay?”
“No.”
He frowned.
“Why Mom?”
I breathed.
“Because I got very angry and made a bad choice.”
“Grandpa jail?”
“We don’t know.”
“Mom jail?”
“No. I have a class.”
He thought.
“Like school?”
“Less fun.”
Then:
“Does class make you not mad?”
“No.”
“What?”
“It helps me decide what to do when I am mad.”
He nodded.
“Don’t slap.”
“Correct.”
Simple.
Then he added:
“Kick crate?”
I almost smiled.
“No.”
“Break?”
“No.”
“What happen crate?”
Police had released it back to Ambrose’s property after evidence photos? Maybe held temporarily, but we did not own.
“I don’t know.”
Callum thought.
“Hope dog uses.”
That was important.
He did not need object destroyed.
The crate could return to being a dog crate.
The lock was the problem.
May you like
The coercion.
Not metal bars by themselves.
