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

You hit your mother thirty times in front of your wife and your guests.”

“You were counting?”

“Yes.”

The word sat between us like a loaded weapon.

“I was angry,” he said.

“So was I.”

“You pushed me.”

“I reminded you who paid for the roof over your head.”