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

I wasn’t trying to earn the money.

I stopped thinking about the money around month three.”

“That’s the right way,” I said.

He didn’t cry, and neither did I.

We were not that kind of family.

But after a while I reached over and set my hand on his shoulder, the way I used to when he was small and had a bad dream, and he leaned, very slightly, into it.

“Mom,” he said.