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

I didn’t rush.

I put the photographs, the separation agreement, and the Kessler note back into the envelope and walked outside.

The cold hit my face.

Trevor stepped out of his car when he saw me.

His suit was wrinkled, his hair disordered.

There was a red mark on his neck, maybe from scratching, maybe from Kristen.

He looked ten years older than he had at his birthday dinner.

I stopped on my side of the gate.