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

“That’s the same thing.”

“No, Trevor,” I said softly.

“It isn’t.”

For years I had imagined this conversation might happen one day.

In the quieter versions, Trevor was embarrassed but not cruel.

He apologized.

He remembered something of the boy who used to hold my hand at job sites and ask why cranes didn’t fall over.

But after thirty slaps, fantasy had no place left to live.