Experts say you should never hit your children in anger. When is

Host: The night was hushed, the sky a sheet of steel-blue silence stretching above the suburbs. A single streetlight flickered, casting pale circles over a row of houses that all looked the same — lawns trimmed, curtains drawn, quiet secrets breathing behind walls.

Inside one of those houses, in a kitchen that smelled faintly of coffee and regret, Jack and Jeeny sat opposite each other. A half-empty bottle of wine stood between them, next to an old photograph — a boy, maybe eight, with a toothless grin and mischief in his eyes.

Jeeny traced her finger along the edge of the photo, her expression soft, her eyes heavy. Jack, sitting with his hands clasped, stared at the table — the tension in his shoulders taut as a drawn wire.

Jeeny: “Roseanne Barr once said, ‘Experts say you should never hit your children in anger. When is a good time? When you’re feeling festive?’”

Jack: (a short, bitter laugh) “Yeah. Humor, the last defense of the guilty. But she’s got a point — there’s never a good time. But people still do it. Especially when they’re angry.”

Host: A clock on the wall ticked — steady, merciless, like memory refusing to let go. The light from the overhead bulb was harsh, yellow, unyielding — the kind of light that reveals, not forgives.

Jeeny: “You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe. Maybe I’m speaking from both sides.”

Host: The wind rattled the windowpane, a faint echo of restless guilt moving through the room.

Jeeny: “You know, when she said that, she was mocking the idea — not defending the violence. She was pointing out how absurd it is to justify what should never be justified.”

Jack: “You ever been a parent, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “No.”

Jack: “Then you don’t get it. There are days you’re so tired, so worn down, the kid’s screaming, you’ve got bills piling up, and every part of you just wants to explode. You don’t want to hurt them, but it’s like there’s a switch, and once it flips, the anger becomes the only thing that’s louder than the noise.”

Host: His voice was low — not defensive, but haunted. The kind of voice that comes from a memory too familiar to be forgotten.

Jeeny: “I get it, Jack. I do. But that’s the problem. We’ve made anger a reason instead of a warning. We think losing control is part of being human — but the people we hurt never call it humanity. They call it fear.”

Jack: “You think I don’t know that? Every time I look at my boy, I see it — that moment, frozen in his eyes, the one time I lost it. And now I’m the monster in the corner of his dreams.”

Host: The silence that followed was thick, trembling. The refrigerator hum was the only sound, steady and unforgiving.

Jeeny: “Do you tell him that?”

Jack: “How do you tell a kid you’re sorry for something they shouldn’t have to forgive?”

Jeeny: “You tell him anyway. Because silence doesn’t heal anything. It just teaches him to hide like you did.”

Host: Her words hit soft, but deep, like rain finding the cracks in stone. Jack’s eyes lowered, the weight of her truth settling into him.

Jack: “When I was little, my old man used to say, ‘You gotta teach them respect.’ His hands were the lesson. I told myself I’d be different. But that night — God — I saw his face in mine.”

Jeeny: “That’s what anger does, Jack. It’s hereditary — not in the blood, but in the behavior. It travels through time, disguised as discipline.”

Host: The wine bottle reflected their faces, warped, as though the glass itself was ashamed to hold their truth.

Jack: “So what’s the cure, then? Just count to ten? Breathe? Walk away?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe it’s learning that power isn’t in the strike, but in the stillness before it. The moment you could hurt — and choose not to.”

Jack: “You make it sound so simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. But neither is violence. That moment you call losing control — that’s a choice too. Just one we like to pretend we didn’t make.”

Host: The rain began to fall, slow, steady, rhythmic — like the ticking of a clock that no longer judged, only counted.

Jack: “You think a kid ever really forgets that?”

Jeeny: “No. But they might forgive it — if the one who hurt them learns to see it. Really see it. Anger hides us from ourselves, Jack. Until we look.”

Host: He looked up, and for a moment, he wasn’t the man who had hit, or the child who had been hit — he was both, colliding in a single heartbeat. His eyes glistened, not from pride, but from recognition.

Jack: “You ever think about how normal we made it all sound? ‘Just a slap,’ ‘a little discipline,’ ‘he’ll thank me someday.’ But it’s all just fear — dressed as love.”

Jeeny: “That’s what she was mocking, Jack. That’s what Roseanne meant. There’s no ‘good time’ to hurt someone you’re supposed to protect. Anger might justify it for a second — but love never does.”

Host: The light above them buzzed, then flickered, softening into a warm gold that spilled over their faces. The tension that had filled the room began to unravel, like an old knot finally loosening.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the real lesson isn’t about not hitting. It’s about learning what you’re really hitting when you do.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s never just skin. It’s trust, innocence, love — all the things that don’t bruise, but break.”

Host: The clock ticked on, but now it sounded different — like forgiveness, slowly arriving.

Jack: “You know, I called him earlier. My boy. Told him I wanted to see him this weekend. He said yes.”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “Then that’s your start.”

Host: Outside, the rain had stopped. The sky had cleared, and the moonlight poured into the kitchen, silvering the edges of the photograph between them.

Host: The boy in the picture still grinned, innocent, untouched by the shadows of anger and inheritance.

Host: And as Jack reached out, touching the photo with fingertips trembling, the world seemed to pause — as if the universe itself had been waiting for this moment of surrender.

Host: Because sometimes the most dangerous violence isn’t the one that breaks, but the one that teaches us to break others.

Host: And sometimes — if we’re lucky — we learn that the truest love is not in power, but in the hands we choose to keep open.