Mom's side of the fence

When I was five and we lived on Tadapaha Street, the girl who lived next door was named Andrea, and she was big for her age—six—and mean.  One day she pointed to some doggie doo on the boulevard, and announced that she was going to push me down in it.  She did, and it got on my new beige-tweed winter coat, and I ran to the house crying and told my mom.

My mom looked out the window into the back yard and saw Andrea’s mom, working in the garden next to the white slat fence.  She marched right out and gave Andrea’s mom a piece of her mind, and told her Andrea could not come into our yard again, and she had better speak to her right now.  Andrea’s mom said “oh, my daughter wouldn’t do such a thing,” but all the while Andrea was standing at the corner of her house making nah-nah faces at my mom, and sticking her tongue out.  My mom said, “turn around quick and look at your daughter—she knows she’s done something wrong.”

Andrea’s mother saw that face and called Andrea over.  She told her to apologize to my mom and promise never to do anything to me again.  Andrea said, “I promise.  I won’t.”  I didn’t believe her.

Andrea didn’t venture into our yard after that, although she shot dagger-glances at me over the fence.  I didn’t care any more.  I was safe.  I was on the side of right.  Even now, I remember most my mom’s righteous indignation, more than Andrea’s spiteful shove.

When my mom stood up for me, she turned an attempted humiliation into a lesson in justice restored.