Chapter 5: Sibling Wars and Father’s Fury

He wasn’t grateful, pushing me away: "Ms. Brooks, don’t meddle outside school!" His words were sharp, but his voice trembled. I saw through the bravado. He was scared.

I lost my temper too, dragged him to sit outside the pharmacy, and looked at his injured leg. "Sit down before you fall down," I snapped, grabbing a bottle of water from my bag. He glared, but obeyed. I was surprised he listened.

"How about I just break your leg so you can’t cause trouble anymore?" He stared at me, shocked. I almost laughed at the look on his face. He was so tough, but so easy to rattle.

Before he could retort, I went into the pharmacy. I bought antiseptic, bandages, and a candy bar—just in case. The cashier gave me a knowing smile. I felt like a parent, not a teacher.

After buying medicine, I treated his wound and explained how to use each one: "This spray can only be used three times a day, max. Don’t overdo it. And don’t use it on broken skin." He rolled his eyes, but I saw the gratitude flicker in his gaze. Tough guys hate being fussed over, but sometimes they need it most.

From start to finish, it was a one-sided conversation. He didn’t even say thank you. I didn’t expect a parade, but a simple nod would’ve been nice. Still, I let it go—change takes time.

Thinking back to how he gritted his teeth, pretending to be tough while I applied medicine, I realized he wasn’t bad at heart—just lacked proper guidance. I saw the same lost look I used to see in the mirror. Maybe, just maybe, there was hope for him yet.

If he really broke with Leonard, I could not only get revenge, but maybe even help him turn his life around. Helping him wasn’t just about me anymore—it was about breaking the cycle for good.

Seeing his wound wasn’t serious, I decided to leave first: "I’m heading home. Take a rideshare back yourself." I tossed him a twenty, hoping he’d use it for something other than trouble. He stared after me, silent. I hoped he’d think about what I said.

I left twenty bucks and walked away without looking back. The wind whipped around me as I walked home, but for once, I felt lighter. Maybe I was finally making a difference.

After that, he still got into fights now and then, and I’d occasionally pretend to pass by and check on him. Each time, his walls came down a little more. He started listening, even if he never admitted it. I felt a tiny spark of hope.

His attitude toward me started to soften. He’d grunt instead of snapping, accept help without complaint. Progress, no matter how small, was still progress. I started to believe change was possible.

I decided it was time to push things further. I called in a favor from an old friend—a martial arts instructor with a heart of gold. We brainstormed ways to reach Christopher, to show him there was more to life than fighting. I wanted to give him a real chance.

To change my fate, I had to go all out. I wasn’t afraid to get my hands dirty. If I wanted a new ending, I had to write it myself. I was determined to help him, no matter what.

I had a friend who practiced martial arts—a big sister type. I asked her to take me to local pool halls where tough guys hung out. The place reeked of beer and sweat. My friend introduced me to a few regulars—guys who knew how to handle themselves. I explained my plan, and they agreed to help. I was nervous, but determined.

Through her, I became "buddies" with a few local tough guys. We shared stories over greasy fries, bonding over our shared disdain for bullies. They agreed to keep an eye on Christopher, to teach him a lesson or two. I hoped it would work.

I made up a story to get them to hassle Christopher: I told them he was picking on younger kids, that he needed to be knocked down a peg. They grinned, eager for the challenge. I felt a little guilty, but knew it was for his own good.

These guys were good at what they did. Every few days, they’d beat up Christopher. He came to school with new bruises, quieter than before. The other kids noticed, too—his reign was slipping. I watched, hoping this was rock bottom—the place where change could finally begin.

They’d even mock him: "You think you’re tough? Even a stray cat’s better than you. Can’t fight, not smart—what good are you? Just an eyesore." Their words stung more than their fists. Christopher started avoiding the usual haunts, keeping to himself. I could see the change.

At first, he fought back, but the more he resisted, the worse he got it. He was stubborn, but even he had limits. Eventually, he stopped fighting altogether, retreating into himself. I worried he’d gone too far the other way.

Eventually, he stopped fighting back and became the bullied kid. The tables had turned. The other kids whispered about him, some with pity, others with glee. I watched, hoping this was rock bottom—the place where change could finally begin.

Word spread around school, and his reputation was ruined. No one wanted to sit with him at lunch. Even his old friends kept their distance. I knew it was harsh, but sometimes you have to break before you can rebuild. I hoped he’d see the lesson.

I thought, now’s the time! I took a deep breath, ready to make my move. This was my chance to reach him, to show him another way. I hoped he’d listen.

I pretended not to know and showed concern: "Christopher, you seem down. Is something wrong at home or are you feeling sick?" He stared at the floor, refusing to meet my eyes. His silence spoke volumes. I felt for him.

Besides words of concern, I’d sometimes give him snacks: "This chocolate’s from a friend who traveled—it’s sweet. Don’t boys your age like sweets? You’re such a tall, strong guy, but always so quiet—is your heart bitter? Let me give you something sweet." He hesitated, then took the chocolate. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

He still didn’t speak, but he quietly accepted the chocolate. I smiled, hoping he’d see it as an olive branch. Sometimes kindness is the best weapon.

Sometimes I’d ask if he was being bullied by older kids and say I’d help him get justice. He’d shrug, but I saw the gratitude flicker in his eyes. Maybe, just maybe, he was starting to trust me. I hoped so.

Other times, I’d talk to him about the future: "I’m curious what boys your age think about. When I was a student, all I thought about was studying. Do you like fighting because it’s exciting, or is there another reason? Do you want people to fear you because you’re good at fighting? Even if you win, they won’t truly respect you—they’ll just avoid you to stay out of trouble. I always tell you to study hard because I hope you can learn real skills, so you can pursue what you’re interested in. Even fighting and gaming have skills. Some people are good at them because they have the right methods. If you keep this up, when you finally find something you care about, will you just stand by and watch? Only by studying hard can you earn the right to live the life you want and gain real respect."

He listened, arms folded, jaw clenched. But I saw his defenses start to crumble. I felt a flicker of hope.

After a long lecture, I finally heard a quiet "okay" from him. The word was barely audible, but it was enough. I smiled, hope blooming in my chest. Maybe he was ready to change.

A few days later, I noticed a real change in him. He started raising his hand in class, asking questions. He even stayed after school for extra help. The other teachers noticed, too. I was proud of him.

He actually came to ask me about study methods. He shuffled up to my desk, mumbling about test prep. I handed him a stack of worksheets, trying not to grin. Progress felt good.

Seeing him put his energy into studying instead of fighting made me genuinely happy. I watched him scribble notes, brow furrowed in concentration. It was like watching a flower bloom after a long winter. I wanted to hug him.

Watching him do extra exercises after school, I knew my plan was working! I kept my distance, letting him come to me. Change is fragile—too much pressure and it shatters. I was careful.

As the semester ended, the school suddenly announced that teachers would make home visits. The announcement sent a ripple of anxiety through the staff room. For me, it was a chance—and a risk. I braced myself.

For me, this was both a crisis and an opportunity. I spent nights rehearsing what I’d say, how I’d act. I knew Leonard would be there, waiting. I was scared, but determined.

Before the visit, I mentally prepared for a long time. I practiced deep breathing, visualized every possible scenario. I told myself I was ready, but the truth is, I was terrified. Still, I had to do it.

Leonard was like a wild beast—I feared him and worried I might never return. His anger was unpredictable, his violence legendary. But I had to go. I had to see for myself how far things had come.

But I wanted to see for myself if there was a rift between him and his son, and maybe stir things up a bit more. If I could widen the gap, maybe I could finally be free. It was a dangerous game, but I was willing to play it.

That afternoon after school, I went home with Christopher. He walked beside me, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes darting nervously. I tried to put him at ease, cracking a joke about the weather.

On the way, I teased him: "Think about whether you’ve caused any trouble lately. If your family scolds you, I won’t stick up for you!" He rolled his eyes, but I saw the hint of a smile. Maybe we were finally becoming real siblings. I felt a little lighter.

Now that our relationship had changed, he joked back: "You’re trying to trick me. I’ve just been studying and going to class—no trouble at all!" I laughed, ruffling his hair. For a moment, we were just two kids, walking home from school. It felt almost normal.

Looking at the boy, now taller than me, I wondered what would happen when I saw Leonard. My stomach twisted with nerves. But I squared my shoulders, determined to face whatever came next.

I couldn’t let Christopher know my real motives, so after confirming his address, I said I used to live there: "I remember there was a little shop at the entrance, run by an old lady. They sold snacks and little toys." He grinned, nostalgia flickering in his eyes. “That shop’s still there. The old lady gives out free gum sometimes.”

He never suspected our connection, just thought it was a coincidence, and laughed: "That shop’s still there. I know everyone in the neighborhood, but I’m sure I’ve never seen you before." I smiled, hiding the ache in my chest. Some things never change, even when everything else does.

I sighed, a little sad: "Over ten years ago, my parents divorced, and I moved with my mom. My dad didn’t like me, started a new family, and I never came back. Sigh…" He looked at me, sympathy flickering in his eyes. For a moment, I thought about telling him the truth, but I held back.

Sensing my mood, he stopped teasing. He patted my shoulder, awkward but sincere. It was the first time he’d shown me real kindness. I almost cried.

The neighborhood was still the same, a bit old but clean. The sidewalks were cracked, the paint peeling, but there was a warmth to it—a sense of community I’d missed. It felt strange to be back.

As a child, after being scolded by Leonard for playing in the flowerbed with neighbor kids: "I work so hard outside, and you just play!" His words echoed in my memory, sharp and unforgiving. I learned early that fun was a luxury I couldn’t afford.

After that, I felt inferior and rarely played with other kids. I watched from the window as they laughed and chased each other, longing to join but never daring. It was lonely.

Most of my memories there were unhappy. But standing there now, with Christopher by my side, I felt a strange sense of closure. Like maybe I could finally let go.

I didn’t dwell on it and went upstairs with Christopher. The stairs creaked under our feet. I took a deep breath, steeling myself for what was to come. I was ready.

Before he opened the door, I asked, "Have you lived here since you were little?" He nodded, glancing at me curiously. “Yeah, always. Why?” I smiled, trying to play it cool.

I deliberately looked at him a little longer, pretending to hesitate. He shrugged, unlocking the door. “You okay, Ms. Brooks?” I nodded, forcing a smile.

He opened the door and let me in: "Ms. Brooks, please come in." The living room was exactly as I remembered—old recliner, faded curtains, the smell of stale smoke hanging in the air. I swallowed hard, memories flooding back.

Inside, Leonard was sitting, smoking, and Diane came out of the kitchen with fruit. Leonard’s eyes narrowed as he sized me up. Diane offered a polite smile, setting a bowl of apple slices on the table. I felt like an intruder.

The moment he saw me, Leonard’s eyes lit up like he’d just seen a pile of cash. He leaned forward, a greedy grin spreading across his face. I fought the urge to flinch. Old habits die hard.

But when he realized how Christopher addressed me, he suddenly understood—I was the daughter he’d always hated, and also Christopher’s homeroom teacher! His jaw dropped, then snapped shut. I saw the wheels turning in his head—anger, confusion, greed all battling for control. He looked ready to explode.

"Heh, so you’re Chris’s teacher. A thankless brat like you, fit to be a teacher? Do your school leaders know you’re heartless?" His words dripped with contempt. Diane looked confused, but Christopher bristled, stepping between us. I felt a surge of gratitude.

In Diane and Christopher’s eyes, I was a responsible teacher. Neither of them imagined I was family. I wiped away a tear, letting my voice tremble just enough. The truth was almost too much to bear.

I acted shocked, letting tears well up… Christopher realized and stopped Leonard from getting closer: "Dad, this is my teacher. Speak respectfully!" He stood tall, defiant. For the first time, I saw him protect someone other than himself. I was proud of him.

I patted his shoulder, as if accepting some bizarre twist of fate. I smiled through the tears, grateful for his support. He didn’t let me down.

Taking a deep breath, I spoke, voice trembling: "I didn’t expect you to be Christopher’s father! I’m here today as his homeroom teacher. Since you don’t want to see me, I’ll just say a few words and go. Christopher is much more mature than when he started school. He’s working hard now, which is great. He missed a lot of classes before, and it’s tough to catch up. At school, he has teachers and classmates to help; at home, he needs support and encouragement from his parents. As parents, besides providing for your child, you should communicate more and understand what he needs, not just leave everything to the school. If parents only provide food and clothing, or ignore their kids, it’s hard for them to truly grow up." Diane let out a breath, relief washing over her face. Christopher nodded, eyes shining with gratitude.

Seeing that I didn’t blame Christopher for our family’s issues, Diane relaxed. She offered me a cup of tea, her hands shaking slightly. I smiled, accepting the gesture. I felt welcome, for once.

Christopher nodded quietly. He glanced at me, then at Leonard, as if weighing his loyalties. I saw the struggle in his eyes. I really did understand him better than Leonard ever could. Years of pain and longing had given me insight Leonard would never have. I hoped Christopher could see that, too.

Christopher always wanted his parents’ attention. He acted out just to get noticed by Leonard and Diane. But Leonard only cared about gambling, and Diane was too busy working and running the house. Neither ever cared about his feelings. He was a kid crying out for love in all the wrong ways. I understood him better than anyone else ever could.

Having lived with them for years in my past life, I knew this family inside out. Every word I said hit home for Christopher. He looked at me, eyes wide with realization. I saw the first cracks in his armor. But to Leonard, my words were just insults.

He sneered, lips curling in disgust. To him, I was still the enemy. He got furious: "Who do you think you are? I’m the boss here, when did you get to lecture me?" He stood up, fists clenched. The air crackled with tension. I tensed, ready for a fight.

He cursed at me and even tried to hit me. His hand shot out, but Christopher blocked him, standing between us like a shield. Christopher grabbed his arm: "Dad! What are you doing?" His voice shook, but he didn’t back down. I felt a surge of pride watching him defend me.

Leonard didn’t expect his son to yell at him. After a moment of shock, he turned his anger on Christopher: "I feed and clothe you, and you’re yelling at me for an outsider?" His words stung, but Christopher stood his ground. I saw the decision flicker across his face—he was done being controlled.