My brother shouted at my nine-year-old son while my parents stood by, then left him coll@psed beside my front door. “I corrected him,” Mark said. “He deserved it,” my mother added. They assumed I would protect the family’s reputation. Then the medic looked at my brother, turned pale, and asked if I knew who he really was.

If he ended up in an argument, somebody would have disrespected him first.

If he borrowed money and never paid it back, my mother said he was simply going through a difficult period.

There was always an explanation. There was always a gentler version. There was always someone standing between Mark and the full consequences of what he had done.

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