Chapter 5 - I CALL THE POLICE ON MYSELFAt nine in the morning, I called the non-emergency police line.
Brian looked horrified.
“What are you doing?”
“Reporting that I threw a ceramic bowl at you.”
“Dad.”
“Do you want to press charges?”
He stared.
“No.”
“That isn’t always entirely your decision.”
The responding officer was younger than my oldest necktie.
He photographed the crack in Max’s bowl.
Brian’s cheek.
My dining room.
Took statements.
Brian said he did not want prosecution.
The officer asked whether he feared me.
Brian said:
“No.”
Then:
“He’s been emotional since Mom died.”
That irritated me.
I kept my mouth closed.
The officer asked me why I threw the bowl.
“Because he put dog food in front of me and called me a freeloader at my birthday.”
“Did he threaten you physically?”
“No.”
“Touch you?”
“No.”
“So you threw it because you were angry.”
“Yes.”
There.
No self-defense.
No heroic correction.
I assaulted my son.
Minor.
Still.
The officer explained the report would be forwarded.
Because injury was limited and Brian did not want charges, the outcome might remain minor.
I said:
“Fine.”
Brian waited until the officer left.
Then exploded.
“What are you trying to prove?”
“That I don’t get to call your behavior wrong while pretending mine didn’t happen.”
“That’s insane.”
“No.”
I looked toward the cracked dog bowl.
“Throwing that was insane.”
There is power in naming your own bad act before another person can use it to erase theirs.
Brian had spent years relying on the family’s need for simple sides.
Good father.
Bad son.
Ungrateful old man.
Responsible adult child.
Reality was less convenient.
I threw the bowl.
May you like
Brian lied for eleven years.
Both true.
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