And there, surrounded by this mob of accusing adults, sat my son. My 14-year-old, who refused to kill insects because “he could have been born an ant,” who taught his little stepbrother origami. He sat perfectly straight, chin raised, looking me dead in the eyes with zero regret. He looked proud of what he did.

“Your son destroyed our family,” Conrad spat. “Look what he did to her face.”

Lauren sobbed harder. “He’s an animal.”

“They’re trying him as an adult, right?” Grandpa shook his head in disgust.

I looked at my son. His knuckles were still bruised and swollen. There seemed to be no reasonable excuse. But then I asked for his side of the story. He looked around the room slowly, his gaze lingering on every single face. Then he spoke, his voice clear and unwavering. “You want to know the truth? She’s been mistreating me for six months. That’s why I did it.”