My mother stood in front of the wreckage of my television, pointed her finger at my face, and told me I was being dramatic over some stupid TV.

Sunday dinner at our house.

My parents, my in-laws, my brother James and his wife, and their eleven-year-old Mason.

Mason was off the moment he came through the door — up on the back of the sofa, throwing coasters, running the length of the hallway.

Nobody said a word to him.

My mother did, however, tell my seven-year-old twice to stop fidgeting on the rug.

That's how it's always gone.

James got a car at eighteen.

I got a lecture about being grateful.

Before dessert, Mason took a football out of his bag and started kicking it around my living room.

"Mason, put the ball away, sweetheart."

He kicked it against the wall.

"Mason.

Second time."

James didn't look up from his phone.

"Let kids be kids."

Then the bang, with a sound underneath it like something shattering.

Seventy-five inches.

Four months old.

The crack spread out from the middle in a spiderweb and the whole thing was still running underneath it — blue lines pouring down the screen, the show still playing somewhere behind the damage, sound still going.

Mason folded his arms and looked at his grandmother.

Not at the TV.

Not at me.

At her.

Waiting.

I said one sentence, and I said it loudly.

"Are you serious right now?"

She was on her feet before I finished it.

"Don't you DARE speak to him like that."

Her finger was up in my face, pointing like a weapon.

"He is a child.

You are traumatizing that boy over some stupid TV."

The blue light from the broken screen fell across all of us while she said it.

I looked at my brother.

He shrugged.

"It's a TV.

Kids break things.

Don't be dramatic."

His wife looked at the carpet.

My father looked at the carpet.

Not one person said a word about paying for it.

Then my mother told me that if I didn't apologize to Mason — apologize, to Mason — she would never set foot in this house again.

I had it all ready.

But then I looked around my dining table.

Every single one of them was braced for it.

My mother had her chin up, waiting.

James had already half-smiled.

They wanted me to scream, because the second I screamed I'd be the one who ruined Sunday dinner, and the TV would stop being the thing that happened tonight.

I wanted to explode.

To finally make the scene they were all waiting for.

But then a much better idea came to me.

A perfect way to teach every single one of them a lesson they wouldn't forget — So I smiled, stood up, and carried my plate into the kitchen.

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