Chapter 11 - The Things We Called Discipline
I couldn't stop thinking about what my mother had said.
We raised her to think this was normal.
For days, I replayed memories I'd spent years trying to forget.
My mother grabbing my wrist when I cried too loudly.
Being told to sit alone in my room until I could behave properly.
The occasional slap that came with the warning, "Now you've given me something to be upset about."
I had told myself those were ordinary childhood experiences.
Many of my friends had similar stories.
But the fact that something happened to a lot of children didn't make it harmless.
One afternoon, while Emma napped, I called my father.
"Did Mom ever hit Lauren?"
He was quiet.
"Yes."
"How often?"
"I don't know exactly."
"Did you know?"
"Some of the time."
I closed my eyes.
"Dad."
"I should've stopped it."
I waited.
He continued.
"Your mother was raised with harsh discipline. She thought being strict kept children from becoming spoiled."
"And Lauren learned the same thing."
"Maybe."
"She literally said babies need discipline after she hit Emma."
Dad exhaled slowly.
"You're right."
I didn't know what to do with that.
Part of me wanted a simple answer.
Lauren was cruel.
Mom was weak.
Dad was a coward.
But the truth was more complicated and more painful.
My mother had been hurt as a child.
She'd repeated some of that hurt with her own children.
Lauren had grown up treating anger as permission to control other people.
And I had grown up believing that keeping peace mattered more than defending myself.
We'd all learned something from the same house.
The difference was what we chose to do with it.
That evening, James noticed I was distracted.
"What's going on?"
I told him about the conversation.
He sat beside me.
"Do you think your mom understands what she did?"
"I think she's starting to."
"And Lauren?"
I shook my head.
"I think Lauren knows she did something wrong. I don't think she cares enough to admit it."
James looked toward Emma.
"People can change."
I turned toward him.
"You think Lauren can?"
"I don't know."
He took my hand.
"But change has to start with admitting what happened. Nobody can do that for her."
The next morning, I received a message from a woman named Melissa.
She'd been friends with Lauren years earlier.
We hadn't spoken in almost a decade.
Sarah, I saw the posts. I'm sorry about Emma. I don't want to get involved in your family conflict, but I want you to know you're not imagining Lauren's behavior.
I sat still.
Another message followed.
When we were roommates, Lauren broke my phone during an argument and told people I dropped it. I believed for years that I was overreacting.
I read the message twice.
I wasn't interested in collecting every bad thing Lauren had ever done.
But Melissa's words brought an uncomfortable recognition.
This wasn't just how Lauren treated family.
This was how she handled being told no.
I thanked Melissa without asking her to involve herself further.
Later that afternoon, another message arrived.
From Lauren herself.
I've had enough of everybody talking about me. Meet me somewhere without James. Just you and me. No baby. No audience.
I stared at the invitation.
For weeks, I'd wanted Lauren to talk without insults or threats.
But I knew how easily conversations with her could turn.
I showed James.
"Do you think I should go?"
He studied the message.
"What do you want?"
"I want to hear her say she was wrong."
"And if she doesn't?"
I looked at Emma sleeping beside us.
"Then I want to know I said everything I needed to say."
James nodded.
"Choose somewhere public. I'll be nearby if you need me, but this is your decision."
I arranged to meet Lauren at a coffee shop the following afternoon.
May you like
Ten minutes before the meeting, she sent another text.
One condition. Don't expect me to apologize for something Mom taught us was normal.
