Dear Teenage Sons,

Yesterday your little sister came home and told me why her friend isn’t allowed to come play at our house. It’s because of you. Your sister, barely out of second grade, doesn’t quite understand. She just laughed in confusion and said, “If he picked on anyone, it would be me!”

All she knows is your kindness, your big heart, your mad cooking skillz, your love of music, your laugh, your moodiness, your awesome friends and your sweet, protective, encouraging presence in her life.

Silly girl. She doesn’t know you want to molest her and her friends.

Wait, that can’t be right. Can it? We all know you’ve never considered doing something so awful. Molest a child? Sexually assault that girl in your class? Give me a break. You’d much rather play Skyrim or dip your body in hot lava. Right? You’d much rather love and be loved. That’s more like the you I know.

I mean, you have your faults. You definitely “lurk” around the neighborhood, doing drugs, stealing and destroying property, looking for easy victims. Right?

Wait, no. That’s not like you. Hmm.

Maybe it’s your friends, then. Surely they must be loitering around their little cousins and peers, waiting impatiently like sly hungry foxes for the perfect opportunity to rape rape rape.

That’s it, right? That’s why everyone’s suspicious of you. Wait, no, that can’t be right, either. I know those boys. They’re more concerned with sports, grades, music, clothes, hair and crushes, much like when they were twelve. Much like our daughters, who are also your age.

Hmm. It just doesn’t add up. We keep telling our daughters to protect themselves from you. Surely you must know how dangerous you are.

So where is The Molester that my mom friends are afraid of? That’s you, teenage boys. Just ask any mother of young children. They’ll all tell you they wouldn’t trust you alone with their young children. Never you mind that they probably have young sons of their own—we all know those boys will be waiting patiently to have sex when they are mature. And married. To a woman.

But you, my sweet, smart, intelligent, stubborn, impressionable, caring, talented, handsome, vulnerable, charming young men, you are the enemy.

Aren’t you?

Yeah, you know it. You’re not sure when it happened, but you know it every time you go longboarding and stop to hang out at the park. You know it every time you wear a hoodie or dare to walk around when the sun goes down. You know it when a teenager actually does molest or rape someone and the public shouts, “Who in their right minds would leave a child alone with a teenage boy!”

Indeed.

Never mind that by their faulty logic they should never have become parents in the first place; parents have committed unspeakable, horrific acts against their own children throughout all of Earth and time, much of it culturally acceptable. “Do as I say. Watch that waistline. Be a man. Let’s cut that off. Come sit on my lap. Know your place. Go get my belt. Shut your mouth. Love the right person. Don’t be so stupid. Get in that corner.”

Never mind that people of all shapes, sizes, genders, ages and colors commit awful crimes every day. Women kill their babies. Men rape their wives. People own people. Governments wage wars.

Never mind that you are innocent.

You are the enemy now.

You know it when a woman crosses the street to avoid you, you know it when you’re suspected for whatever petty crime happened in the ‘hood, and you sure as hell know it when your own little sister can’t bring a friend home from school just because you exist.

I sometimes look at you while you’re texting, and I wonder.

When I see porn everywhere, I wonder if I’ve spoken to you kindly about love and respect.

When I protect and uplift my daughters, I wonder if I leave you feeling vulnerable and low.

When I ask why you and your friends — minors with no place to go — are hanging out at a public playground, I wonder if my question makes you feel like a pack of wolves.

When I yell “Girl Power!” I wonder if it’s at your expense.

When I jump to conclusions and assume you’re up to no good, I wonder if you get the message loud and clear.

When I hold my young son tight while holding you under suspicion, I wonder if he can see his own future in your eyes.

Dearest sons, I would like to say I’m sorry. I am so very sorry.