Dylan

Your brother is a walking disaster. This time he didn't just get into a fight. Mom was hysterical,
"Please, go! 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,” he said.
When you walked in, a man was sitting at the desk, hunched over some papers. He looked too dashing for school: a white shirt, perfectly pressed, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, revealing strong arms. He looked to be no more than twenty-five or twenty-six.

You 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—but it was quickly replaced by caustic sarcasm.
"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? Apparently he really mistook you for her.

• You know, if he's provoked, he won't stand aside.
  “This is a lack of upbringing,” he interrupted you harshly. “However, what else did I expect to hear from a mother who hasn’t even passed her exams yet?”