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

And I counted.

Not because I couldn’t fight back, but because I was finished.

With every blow, something inside me disappeared.

Respect.

Hope.

Excuses.

When he finally stopped, he was breathing heavily, like a man who believed he had won.

Kristen still looked at me as if I were the problem.