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“Because sometimes the lessons that shape you come folded, ink-stained, and intercepted by your parents.”

The last time we talked, I narrowly escaped the fallout from The Battle.
I still don’t know why my father even put up a fight. In situations like that, Mom wins—she always wins.

Dinner was late that night, and Dad’s last nerve; frayed. He moped around the house like a rejected understudy in his own life. Mom chuckled every time she passed him—quietly, of course, out of his line of sight.

But enough about The Battle. I’m here today to tell you about my next misadventure: The Connie Winford Diabolical.

---

Suppose you’ve ever been twelve and suddenly realized that girls weren’t carriers of incurable cooties but mysterious, magnificent creatures who smelled like shampoo and danger. In that case, you already know where this story begins. And what were those bumps on their chest? Some mysterious growth? Were they dying? Nope—they were boobs. The downfall of man.

Middle School.
The arena of hormonal confusions, bad decisions, Grey Flannel, and Drakkar. The mixture alone was enough to make anyone hurl. But back then, we had the constitution of gods—right up until alcohol got involved. That’s a story for another day.

By then, I’d graduated from class clown to romantic visionary. English was still my thing, which meant I’d discovered a weapon far more dangerous than spitballs—words.

I started writing notes. Not just any notes. Masterpieces. Folded with precision, tight enough to survive the perilous journey across the classroom. Each one a mini-drama of doodled hearts, overwrought metaphors, and shamelessly borrowed Hallmark poetry.

Shakespeare would have been proud.

However, evidence suggested otherwise.

Then came The Note.

She was new—a transfer student, with curly hair, a smile like she’d been warned not to use it in public. Connie Winford. A name that still sounds like a trap.

I slipped her my finest work: a declaration of eternal middle-school devotion written in purple ink. It included the words destiny, soul connection, and—God help me—forever.

She giggled. I took that as a victory. But she showed her best friend, who showed another, and by lunch, the entire cafeteria knew I’d pledged undying love. They had thoughts. Loud ones.

I tried to play it cool. That lasted six minutes. Then, in a fit of damage control, I wrote a second note claiming it was all a joke. She didn’t buy it. My teacher, who intercepted note number three, definitely didn’t buy it.

By 2:15, I was in the principal’s office. By 3:00, my parents had been called.

---

Home.

My father was furious. “No man in this family conducts himself like this,” he said.

Mom countered, “What about Uncle Butch?”

My father popped, “You think this is a laughing matter?”

I braced myself for the usual surrender—Mom softening, saying something like, Of course not, dear.

But not my mama. No way.

“Yep, freaking hilarious,” she said. “You act like you didn’t pass me notes in school. If I recall, your note was worse than his. Plus, your folding was terrible. Everyone knows it’s about the presentation. Eat your peas.”

Dad said nothing. Just stabbed at his plate, probably reconsidering all his life choices.

---

That night, I did what any self-respecting, lovesick fool would do: I called her. The house phone was mounted on the kitchen wall—the kind with a coiled cord long enough to lasso a small horse. I dragged it down the hallway into my room and whispered my apology, voice trembling like it carried state secrets.

Things were going well—until I heard it.

A click.

The quiet death of privacy.

My parents were listening in.

Mother’s voice came first: “That’s a mighty long cord for a short conversation.”

Then Father, dry as ever: “Son, next time you write a love note, use better paper. That cheap stuff smears.”

This from a man who knew his folding game was subpar.
Was I adopted?

They tag-teamed me. There was no escape.

I hung up the phone, face burning, dignity in ruins.

The next day, my teacher sentenced me to read from the dictionary during lunch. I didn’t mind. It felt poetic somehow.

That’s the day I learned two things:

1. Love makes geniuses stupid.
2. Parents have a sixth sense for dial tones. Some may even say, they feel a disturbance in the Force.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s when I became a writer. Because if you’re going to get in trouble for your words, they might as well be worth reading.
Until you get in trouble saying nothing. Again, a story for another day.