Chapter 15 - Anger Class
My anger-management class met Tuesday nights in a municipal building that smelled like old carpet.
I hated it.
Which probably meant I needed it.
The facilitator, Jerome, asked:
“What did striking Estelle accomplish?”
“She stopped.”
“Was she attempting a second strike?”
“No.”
“So what stopped?”
I knew.
“My anger got somewhere to go.”
There.
Then:
“What did Percival see?”
“His grandmother hit him and his father hit her.”
“What lesson?”
I looked down.
“That people with more power can use their hands when they’re sure they’re right.”
Exactly what I hated about my mother.
Wonderful.
I went home and told Percival:
“I had class.”
“Did you pass?”
“No grades.”
“Boring.”
“Yes.”
Then:
“What learn?”
“That being angry can tell me something is wrong, but it doesn’t get to choose what my hands do.”
He looked at my hands.
“Hands dumb?”
I laughed.
“Sometimes.”
Then he asked:
“If Grandma hit me again?”
“I move you away.”
“And?”
“Call for help if needed.”
“You no hit?”
“No.”
He thought.
“What if she has sword?”
I stared.
“Why does Grandma have a sword?”
“Just if.”
“Then I’m changing the plan.”
He laughed.
Good.
The world could become funny again.
I completed diversion.
Charge dismissed.
Not erased from my memory.
That was enough.
Estelle completed probation more slowly.
Her relationship with me remained strained.
No dramatic mother-son cutoff.
We spoke.
Mostly logistics.
She asked about Percival.
I gave general updates.
No access until he wanted.
Then one Tuesday she said:
“I miss him.”
“I know.”
“Does he miss me?”
“Sometimes.”
She cried.
May you like
I did not fix it.
Missing a child does not create a right to the child.
