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

“I didn’t say yes to what you wanted.”

“No.” A small, broken laugh.

“You said yes to what I needed.”

We sat quietly.

A breeze moved through the rosemary near the back steps, and the smell drifted around the porch.

“Your father would have liked this,” I said.

“Would he?”

“Not the way it happened.