It started like a million other times, a child’s refusal to accept responsibility for her negative actions. She kept going, stirring herself into frenzy until she’d provoked an older, unbalanced brother into a murderous rage. He stormed into the kitchen, came roaring up at me, informing me that he was going to kill me. He’s my height but outweighs me.

I flared up, didn’t back down at all, “You just try it,” I’d glowered, hoping my 20 year old son could get downstairs fast enough.

The other brother of that bunch, gifted and very attached to me immediately burst into tears, something he never does, and yet another brother, older and larger was by my side in an instant.

My daughter, almost 17 and mean as a viper too often, must have flown over a sofa and a counter because she too was there in a flash. Realizing he was outmanned, Jose slung three kitchen chairs at kids and stormed off, turning over a huge, heavy book shelf in the hallway, and he blew out the door where he started flipping over my greenhouse supplies and anything in his wake.

“Call the police, Mom,” my daughter yelled.

I quickly thought, nah, they’d come and then go, leaving me with an angrier, more dangerous, very irrational son that I’ve blogged about before, realizing he’s becoming too much of a danger to the family.

Other kids ran to tell me that he was threatening to kill most of them. That’s it, I can’t take this anymore, and I can’t guarantee everyone’s safety. I almost called 911 to get a deputy to transport Jose to the hospital, we have a sixth floor euphemism for mental patients, but we live so far out in the country I didn’t want to sit around with a dangerous kid and wait.

Two brothers got him in the van, my thumb ready to dial 911 and I drove us there.

Continued in Part Two