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

I looked past him to the trees, bare-limbed in the February cold.

“I let him stand for years.

He chose where to walk.”

Voss studied me for a long moment.

Then he set the envelope on top of the stone gatepost.

“In that case, you should know what he signed.”

“I already know enough.”

“No,” Voss said.