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

He sat on the bottom step, not the chair next to mine.

We watched the live oaks drop leaves into the yard.

After a while he said, “I never counted them.

The slaps.

I didn’t know how many it was until the footage.”

“I know.”

“Thirty.” His voice shook.

“I think about it every day.