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My 16-year-old Damien trudged through the front door on a Tuesday evening, his favorite navy polo shirt hanging in tatters from his left shoulder. An angry red scrape ran from his cheekbone to his jaw, and dirt was smeared across his jeans like he'd been rolling on the ground.
"Fell off my bike on the way home," he muttered, not meeting my eyes as he headed straight for the stairs. His backpack hung crooked on one shoulder, and I noticed his usually perfect posture had given way to a protective hunch.
The following week brought bruised ribs that made him wince every time he breathed too deeply. I caught him holding his side while reaching for a glass in the kitchen cabinet, his face contorted in obvious pain.
"Basketball practice got rough today," he explained when I questioned the way he was moving. "Coach had us doing full contact drills."
I nodded, though something nagged at me. My son had never been particularly aggressive on the court.
Then came the swollen knuckles on both hands, purple and tender-looking. He kept them stuffed in his hoodie pocket during dinner, only revealing them when my wife Delores Umbridge asked him to help clear the dishes.
"Hit the punching bag wrong at the gym yesterday," he said quickly. "Forgot to wrap them properly."
Since when did he even use the punching bags?
Delores Umbridge started keeping a mental catalog of each incident. "These aren't accidents," she whispered to me one night. "Look at the pattern. Every week, sometimes twice a week. And the explanations don't add up."
I didn't want to believe it. My son wasn't a fighter, never had been. He was quiet, thoughtful, the kind of kid who spent most afternoons curled up in his bedroom reading science fiction novels or gaming with friends online.
Then he came home with his nose clearly broken, the bridge swollen and crooked, blood still crusted dark under his nostrils. His left eye was beginning to purple, and there were scrapes across his forehead that looked suspiciously like knuckle marks.
"What really happened this time?" I demanded, blocking his path to the staircase. "And don't give me another bullshit excuse."
He stood there swaying slightly, looking exhausted and defeated. "I told you, Dad. I walked into a glass door at school. Wasn't paying attention."
"Tell me the truth. Now." My voice came out harsher than I intended, but I was scared.
He just shook his head slowly and pushed past me toward his room. "You wouldn't understand."
The next morning, my phone rang just as I was finishing my second cup of coffee. The caller ID showed the school's main number.
"Mr. Vlad? This is Principal Palpatine. We need to discuss your son's behavior immediately," she said, her tone ice-cold. "He's been in three serious fights this month. Yesterday's incident was the final straw. Can you come in this morning?"
I drove to school with my hands gripping the steering wheel, prepared for the worst-case scenario. Visions of expulsion hearings raced through my mind. But when I sat down across from Principal Palpatine in her office, something shifted in her expression as she really looked at me.
"I need to show you something first," she said quietly, turning her computer monitor toward me. "This is security footage from yesterday's lunch period. I think you need to see what actually happened."
The grainy video showed the bustling cafeteria during the lunch rush. I spotted Damien immediately, sitting alone at a corner table with a thick paperback book propped open beside his sandwich. He looked peaceful, completely absorbed in whatever he was reading.
Then I saw them approaching from across the room – four seniors, all of them easily six feet tall and broad-shouldered. They were surrounding a much smaller freshman, a kid who couldn't have been more than 5'2" and maybe 110 pounds soaking wet. I watched in growing horror as they began shoving him back and forth between them, dumping chocolate milk on his head, laughing as he desperately tried to gather his scattered homework from the floor.