I got a call from my son’s school. They said he’d gotten into a fight.
My husband and I were furious, but my MIL, a retired teacher, was calm.
Instead of scolding him, she handed him a pen and paper.
We were confused.
Then she smiled and told him, “If you can’t talk it out, write it out. Start with what hurt.”
Our son, Rayan, just 13, stared at her like she was speaking another language.
He had a split lip, one knuckle still raw.
The principal said he’d shoved a boy against the lockers and cussed him out.
Rayan’s not a violent kid. He’s the kind who triple-checks the stove is off before leaving the kitchen.
But something was clearly brewing under the surface.
“Go on,” my MIL, Malati, said gently, placing the pen in his hand again.
“We’ll wait.”
