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

He did not know who I was.

He pointed toward the construction work and asked if I could move my sedan because a delivery van needed room to pass.

‘Of course,’ I said, and moved it.

It struck me as a perfect ending to my relationship with the house.

For five years it had been a stage on which my son performed success.

Now it was simply a place where people needed to get their work done and where a driver had to move a car so another could pass.

I liked that better.