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

That was the last mercy I had given him.

I wasn’t sure I had any left.

“Fine,” I said.

Outside, Houston traffic moved like a restless animal.

I drove myself, because I always drove myself.

The old sedan smelled of leather, dust, and the peppermints I kept in the console.

My face throbbed.

My ribs ached where Trevor had shoved me into the table.