“Well now, look at that,” he said, dragging a chair out. “Guess you finally learned not to talk back. That little slap must have worked.”
I poured coffee into his cup without looking at him. Steam curled upward. He reached for a biscuit, grinning like a child sneaking dessert before dinner. The moment his eyes lifted to the head of the table, the smile vanished.
Sitting at the head of the table was Sheriff Wallace Price, his hat resting on the chair beside him. His uniform was crisp, and his expression was firm, but not unkind. Beside him sat Reverend Amos Fletcher from First Baptist of Ashford. His hands were folded on his lap, and his gaze held a mix of sorrow and resolve. On the opposite side of the table sat my sister, Darlene Whitby, who had caught the first flight from Ohio when I called her, voice trembling, though I had not told her why.
Jared froze where he stood.
“Mom, what is this?” he asked, his voice cracking.
Sheriff Price motioned to the chair. “Sit down, Jared. We have a matter to discuss.”
I watched as my son’s eyes darted from face to face. His breathing quickened. He pulled the chair back, the legs scraping against the hardwood, and slowly lowered himself onto the seat. The clock on the wall ticked. Outside, a dog barked twice before falling silent.
After a moment, Jared found his voice. “So you called the police. After everything I’ve done for you?”
I met his eyes. “Do you mean eating the food I buy? Living in this house without contributing a cent? Or yelling when the laundry is not folded fast enough?”
Reverend Fletcher’s voice filled the room like a soft hymn. “Jared, your mother showed me the bruise. This is not the first time you have frightened her, but it needs to be the last.”
Sheriff Price placed a folded packet of papers on the table. “This is documentation of last night’s incident. In this county, assault is taken seriously. These are options for next steps. You are not currently under arrest, but that could change depending on what happens from here.”
Jared’s face turned pale. “Mom, I swear I did not mean it. I was stressed. You know how much pressure I am under.”
Darlene leaned forward, her jaw tight. “Our father carried pressure like a second job, and not once did he raise a hand to anyone. Stress is not an excuse to hurt the person who raised you.”