I don't know why

The sky was blue. It was a beautiful autumn day and the weather was perfect for jumping on the trampoline. I was enjoying the scenery, doing flips, not thinking, when the entire day changed. My brother was hanging out of my bedroom window, crying, phone in hand, screaming that he needed to know our father’s phone number. I ran into the house, up the stairs, past our mother’s husband, and to my room.

“Mike, let me in.” He hesitantly unlocked the door, looked to make sure that Husband C was not standing behind me, and let me inside. As soon as I entered, he relocked the door, standing with his weight against the wood for good measure.

“What happened?”

“What’s Dad’s number?”

“What happened?”

I don’t remember seeing my brother cry at any other time in our lives. I’m sure I did; after all, we lived with Husband B for six years, but this incident stands out. “He came into my room, and he said he was taking my stereo. I said he couldn’t, that it was a gift from Dad, and he said he was going to call the police on me, for being a disorderly teen. So I stood between him and the stereo, and he picked me up and body slammed me on the ground. Then he called the police and told them that I was being disorderly.”

“What?”

“He called the police.”

So I opened my bedroom door and I screamed his name. He came to the door obediently, as though I were the adult in the house. “What do you think you’re doing?”

He looked at me.

“Did you call the police?”

He nodded.

“Damnit. What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Call them back and tell them not to come.”

And he did. I don’t know why, but he did.

And then he said, “Let’s not tell your mom about this. Let’s keep this between us.”

And we did. I don’t know, but we did.