By Emma Alvarez Gibson

In the end, the police who showed up after I’d called 911 blamed it on me. I shouldn’t have spoken to my father that way, they said. I was 16 and had shown a distinct lack of respect, they said. Perhaps we should discuss it as a family over the dinner table tonight, the female officer told me, clearly annoyed and bored. I understood.

“You’re right,” I said to them. “Thank you.”

Once they were gone, we packed. And then we loaded up the car.

My father returned just before we left, glaring at me.

“You know, none of this was necessary,” he said to me.

And he was right.


Photo by Ant Standring, used under a Creative Commons license.

Emma is a cheerfully obsessive writer, editor and creative gun-for-hire. She’s had a hand in all types of media, at every step in the process. Jack Move is her fifth from-scratch magazine. (Clearly, this has become A Thing.) She lives in Los Angeles with her husband and son. Follow her on Twitter (@ealvarezgibson) and find out more at www.emmaalvarezgibson.com.

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