Oliver, Standing Up For His Son

I’d always known I wasn’t the most masculine dad: my ex-wife had made that perfectly clear. It wasn’t until the father of my son’s bully was pounding me into the dirt behind the school’s football field that I realized how much of a failure I’d been.

And that I made a much better woman.

I took a deep breath before knocking on the door of the Daniels’ house. When it swung open to reveal a burly six foot black man, my mouth went dry. Maybe I should have worn something a little more dignified than a Funko Pop t-shirt to confront him.

“Yes?” He leaned against the door frame.

“Are–are you Mr. Daniels?” I asked.

He nodded. His chilly demeanor told me I was the least important thing in the universe to him, as substantial as cotton candy.

“I’m Oliver Wilson, Quentin’s father. Your son and my son seem to be having issues.”

He raised an eyebrow, “And?”

“Well, I was hoping we could talk and come up with a solution?” I hadn’t meant to say it as if it were a question. It made me seem servile.

“Your son couldn’t talk to Eddie himself, then.”

“Uh, well, I think–”

“So daddy dearest came to the rescue.”

My face reddened, and I examined my shoes. “I wouldn’t put it like that,” I mumbled.

“Say that again,” Mr. Daniels’ tone harshed.

I cleared my throat, looked up at him, found I couldn’t hold his gaze, and glanced away. “I wouldn’t put it like that,” I said finally.

“How would you put it?”

“Um, uh,” I couldn’t help my stammering, even though I knew it made me look dumber and dumber with each passing second. “Eddie has been harassing Quentin, stuffing him into lockers, hiding his textbooks, that sort of thing. And I’m just trying to… help.” I squealed the last bit as I lost my last shred of bravery.

Mr. Daniels stared me down. I didn’t even attempt eye contact.

“Haven’t heard anything from the school,” he said.

“Yes, well–”

“Those teachers are with them all day, and they haven’t said a word to me about any bullying. Eddie hasn’t said anything to me. Nothing. Then you show up, groveling, can’t even look at me.”

I cringed.

“Now,” he continued. “Here’s the truth, Oliver. You’re a pussy, and you raised a pussy.” He didn’t put any venom in his words, just said them like he was commenting on the weather. “Quentin can’t handle a couple pranks, so he goes crying to his papa, not realizing his old man’s just as much of a pussy as him. And here we are.”

Tears sprang to the corners of my eyes, but I fought them back, barely.

“So no, I’m not talking to Eddie, and I’m not talking to you. The only solution is for a bitch like you to get off my property. Maybe next time little Quentin’ll run to his mommy instead,” he added, shutting the door.

I stood there trying to process the utter humiliation I’d received over the last two minutes. Then, I ran back to my car, wiping my wet face.