My Son Struck Me Thirty Times at His Birthday Dinner. The Next Morning, I Sold the Mansion He Thought He Owned.

“Don’t play games with me.” Trevor’s voice rose.

“There are people at my house.”

I glanced toward the window.

Downtown Houston shimmered under a pale winter sun, all glass and steel and ambition.

“Your house?” I asked.

The silence that followed was so satisfying it almost made me ashamed.

Almost.

Kristen’s voice cut in from somewhere behind him.