My Son Struck Me Thirty Times at His Birthday Dinner. The Next Morning, I Sold the Mansion He Thought He Owned.
Iron bars between us.
It felt appropriate.
He looked at my bruised face and flinched.
For one second, shame crossed his face so plainly that I nearly believed it might save him.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“For last night.
For all of it.
I shouldn’t have touched you.”