My Son Struck Me Thirty Times at His Birthday Dinner. The Next Morning, I Sold the Mansion He Thought He Owned.
Trevor got out.
He wore work boots and a canvas jacket with a crew’s logo on the chest.
He had lost the polish.
He looked like his father at thirty.
He stopped at the foot of the steps.
“I didn’t know if I should come.”
“Neither did I,” I said.
“But the coffee’s hot.”
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