I Confront Mr. Daniels, Again

When Mr. Daniels opened his door a second time, before he could ask who I was or what I was doing on his porch, I said, “Mr. Daniels, I need to talk to you about your son’s behavior.”

“You’re Mrs. Wilson,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes, Allison,” I surprised myself with how much momentum I felt in the moment. “Your son and mine seem to have developed an adverse relationship, and I would like us to help them resolve it.”

“Would you now?” He stared at me, but, this time, I stared back. “Look, I’ll tell you what I told your husband: the school hasn’t said anything, so what is there to do?”

I took a step toward him: the height difference forced me to crane my neck to maintain eye contact, “Wouldn’t you rather not get the school involved? Their zero tolerance policy means any incidents could prevent our sons from graduating at the end of the semester.”

He smirked and gestured inside, “Come on,” he said. “Let’s talk.”