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

Writing the list made me feel less brave than I had expected.

Boundaries look strong on paper.

In a quiet kitchen they also look lonely.

Ortega arrived with a locksmith shortly before sunset.

While the new cylinders were installed, I pulled Trevor’s childhood photographs out of a drawer and laid them on the table.

There was Trevor in a crooked paper crown at his first birthday party.

Trevor asleep on Raymond’s chest.

Trevor at sixteen, holding a toolbox, grinning beside a half-built porch swing.