I grew up sharing a bedroom with my two older brothers. Three boys in one room is not always the recipe for peace.

One morning I woke up to the sound of them fighting. Not just arguing. Really fighting. Voices raised. Bodies moving into “stand off!” position! High noon at the McBride corral! The kind of tension that makes a younger kid lie still for a moment and wonder what to do.

I was scared.

And if I’m honest, I was a little bit of a tattletale.

So I went and told Mom. She brought my brothers in and had a sit-down with them. The lecture was delivered. Justice had been served—at least from my point of view.

But then I had a new problem.