Chapter 124
Xander
I didn’t sleep that night; I was awake all night because of a seven-year-old who pushed another kid and said my name like it was a weapon. I lay there staring at the ceiling, Zia asleep beside me, and all I could think was:
This is my fault. The way kids absorb you without you noticing. The way they pick up your habits, your tone, and your rules for how the world works.
I’d spent my whole life teaching people one lesson: Power wins, and now my son was repeating it on a playground.
The next morning, I took him to school myself. We walked through the gate together, his hand in mine.
“Dad,” he said, “am I in big trouble?”
“No,” I said. “But we need to talk.”
We sat on a bench before the bell rang.
“You know when I talk about power,” I said, “I’m talking about responsibility. Not threats.”
He frowned. “But people listen to you.”
“Yes,” I said. “Because I try to be fair. Not because I scare them.”
He looked like he was thinking about it.
“Did I scare him?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said honestly.
He went quiet. “That’s not who you are, Alex,” I continued. “And that’s not who I want you to be.”
He nodded slowly. “I’m sorry, Dad,” he said.
That part was easy, but what came after was harder. The next few weeks, things didn’t get worse, but they didn’t get better either. There were little comments and attitudes nothing big, but just enough that both Zia and I noticed.
He interrupted more and argued more. Started saying things like, “You can’t make me,” to teachers. Not mean, just… confident. Too confident, and that bothered me, and I knew it bothered Zia even more.
One night, after we put him to bed, Zia closed the door and turned to me.
“We need to talk,” she said.
That tone was the serious tone. We went to the kitchen and sat at the island; she poured herself a glass of water, her hands tight around the glass.
“He told his teacher today that rules don’t apply to him the same way,” she said. And I closed my eyes.
“Because of us,” she continued. “Because of our life. Because of what he hears at this table.” she said
“I know,” I said.
“And what are we going to do about it?” she asked.
That was the problem; I didn’t have an answer for it. I’d solved billion-dollar crises and scandals, but this? This was new, and I didn't know how to solve it.
“He needs structure,” I said finally. “Limits.”
“He has limits,” she snapped. “He just doesn’t believe them.” she said, and that stung, but she wasn’t wrong. We had protected him from everything. Too well. There were no consequences. No real pushback. Because we could always fix it. And now he knew it.
“I don’t want him growing up thinking the world bends for him,” she said.
“Neither do I,” I replied.
“Then we have to change how we parent,” she said.
That word, change. For people like us, that was harder than any enemy.
The next day, I made a decision. I pulled him out of Crestview. Not because of the incident. Because it was too safe, too soft, and too easy, I enrolled him in a private academy. It was smaller and stricter, and there was no special treatment.
Zia wasn’t happy about that. “You think discipline fixes this?” she asked.
“I think environment matters,” I said.
We argued about it; well, we went back and forth about values, fear, and whether we were overreacting, so we compromised on it. We decided on a trial period for three months.
The new school was… rough. He had to wear a uniform, and there were rules. There was no name-dropping. The first week, he came home quiet, barely saying much, but the second week, he was angry.
“They don’t like me,” he said one night.
“Why?” Zia asked.
“They say I’m bossy.”
I looked at her, and she looked at me. Good, it was painful, but it was good. By the end of the first month, he got his first real punishment. Detention. For talking back When I picked him up, he looked small; he didn't look angry. Just tired.
“Dad,” he said, “why do they get to tell me what to do?” he asked.
I parked the car and turned to look at him. “Because you’re not special there,” I said.
He frowned. “But I’m your son.”
“Yes,” I said. “Not their king,” and that landed. Slowly, things shifted, not fast, but a real change. He learned to wait his turn. Learned that teachers didn’t care who his parents were and that pushing back had consequences.
Zia and I backed the school. Every single time there was no saving him anymore. No fixing. No exceptions. It was brutal for him and for us, but we had to do it.
One night, after he went to bed, Zia sat next to me on the couch.
“I hate this,” she admitted.
“So do I,” I said.
“But I hate what he could become more,” she said, and I nodded because that was the truth. Months passed, and he softened; he wasn't weak. Just… balanced.
One evening, he came home with a drawing. A messy picture of our family in stick figures—the three of us. He walked in with big smiles, and underneath, in shaky letters, he’d written:
MY FAMILY HELPS PEOPLE.
Not rules or power helps. Zia cried when she saw it, and I just stared at it for a long time. Later that night, I stood in his doorway and watched him sleep.
So small, vulnerable, and easy to shape without meaning to. I finally understood something I’d missed my whole life. Power isn’t what you teach with words. It’s what you teach by example. And that scared me more than anything else ever had because this time… There was no enemy to fight, only myself.
Okay, so eleven-year-olds are… a different breed. Alexander is eleven now. Eleven. I blinked, and somehow the little monster who once tried to bite my nose in the morning is now a full-on mini tornado with opinions, fists, and a complete lack of fear.
I knew something was up before school even started that day. Usually, he barges into my office like he owns the place, backpack flopping, hair sticking up in every direction, and a grin that could melt steel. But that morning? Silence. Too quiet.
I got out of bed and went to check. The bedroom door was closed. No giggling, no “Dad! Dad! Look at this!” Nothing. I knocked. Nothing. I opened the door slowly and… empty.
Empty.
My heart sank. Not full panic-sank, but you know… that low-grade, oh-shit feeling that dads get when the house is too quiet and they know better than to trust it.
I ran to the window. No sign of him on the balcony, no bike in the yard, and no mess in the driveway. He was gone.
Gone.