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

“He hit me thirty times.

I counted.”

The line was quiet for a moment.

Then Deputy Collins said, gently, “Ma’am, I’m sorry.

Are you willing to give a statement?”

“I am.”

It was the hardest word I had ever said about my son.

It was also the first one in years that felt like standing on solid ground.