When I was 16 years old, I had a heated argument with my mother. In an attempt to get away from her escalating rage, I brushed past her. That was all it took. She picked up the phone and called the cops, telling them I beat her. She lied, without hesitation. By the next day, thanks to my sister, every kid in the neighborhood believed I was a violent thug who assaulted his own mother.
Fast forward to the day my mother and my sister got into one of their infamous battles. They destroyed the living room. The television was smashed. Dishes shattered across the floor. They clawed and punched each other like enemies in a street brawl until they were both on the floor, yanking each other’s hair and bleeding from the face.
I walked into that war zone, stunned. My sister ran out the door like a coward. My mother, the same woman who lied to the police and destroyed my name, sat there in tears and said she felt sorry for my sister. Her excuse? “She’s confused.”
The same sister who beat her bloody got a sympathy pass. No cops were called. No rumors were spread. Not a single word was said to the neighborhood.
Because when a boy makes one wrong move, he’s branded for life. But when a girl causes chaos, she gets coddled, protected, and forgiven like it never happened.
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