I'm Gonna Tell!

Last Sunday - I hesitate to tell what happened in our apartment building last Sunday. My reluctance stems from moral confusion about what used to be black and white issues for me. I thought I was doing the right thing. Now I’m not so sure.

I was leaving my apartment to pick up a few groceries for Sunday night dinner when I heard the neighbours down the hall fighting, yelling at each other – a boy and his father. The boy was crying, and in between sobs was telling his father “it isn’t fair, it isn’t fair.” The father’s voice was extraordinarily loud and angry-sounding. I feared for the child.

Standing in the hallway, I could hear the confrontation escalating - the boy crying more and the father yelling louder and louder. Then I heard it - a series of blows in rapid succession. Something was hitting something. I don’t know for sure that the father was hitting his son but I couldn’t bear the thought. I raced over to the neighbour’s door and knocked forcefully.

“Is everything okay in there,” I asked a repeatedly, hoping to sound authoritative. What the hell was I doing? It was an instinctive reaction. I knew the boy. He goes to the same high school as my daughter.

There was dead silence. Not a sound. Then the father spoke, in a breathless voice. “We’re just talking here, we’re just talking. There’s no problem here.”

I responded by telling him I heard fighting.

“I’m not hitting him. We’re just talking. Everything’s fine.” The boy was quiet.

The father wanted me to go way. There wasn’t a peep coming from the apartment. “We’re just talking,” the father reiterated. No sound came from the boy.

I told him I was just making sure everyone was okay.