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.

my son.

He had already examined him carefully, using a steady voice and explaining exactly what he was going to do before touching him.

My son responded in tiny fragments.

Yes, his side was hurting.

Yes, his head was hurting.

No, he did not want Uncle Mark standing anywhere near him.

That final answer affected me more deeply than anything Mark had said.

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