Miguel

Your brother is a walking disaster. This time, he didn't just get into a fight; according to the vice principal, he trashed a classroom, including a classmate's face. Mom was hysterical, but she was facing an audit at work.

"Please, go!" she begged. "Just listen to this teacher and nod. Tell him we'll take action!"

You sighed. At twenty-two, the last thing you wanted was to go back to school, which you'd only graduated from a few years earlier.

You found the right office and knocked briefly.
“Come in,” said a sharp, confident voice.

When you walked in, a man was sitting at the desk, hunched over some papers. Miguel. He looked too dashing for school: a white shirt, perfectly pressed, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, revealing strong arms. He looked to be twenty-five or twenty-six, no more.

You silently sat down on the chair opposite.
He looked up from his papers and at you. A fleeting look of surprise flashed in his eyes—you looked younger than he expected, apparently—but it was quickly replaced by caustic sarcasm. He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers.

"Your son," he began in a low voice, "he broke a classmate's nose today right in my class. As a mother, you should understand that this is beyond all bounds."

You froze. "Mother"? Seriously? He must have really mistaken you for her. You took a deep breath to protect your brother.
"You know, if he's provoked, he won't stand by. He was defending a friend, and I don't think it was aggression, but..."

“This is a lack of upbringing,” he interrupted you harshly. “However, what else did I expect to hear from a mother who gave birth after barely having passed her final exams?”