“Mom, I took it downtown yesterday and sold it,” he whispered in a barely audible tone.

The words sounded so absurd that my brain refused to process the sentence for several seconds.

“You sold the birthday guitar your father and I worked extra shifts to buy for you?”

Noah nodded miserably, his slender shoulders curling inward as if bracing for a physical blow.

I grabbed the back of a kitchen chair to steady myself, my mind spinning with utter confusion and rising anger.

“Why on earth would you sell your absolute favorite thing in the world without speaking to us first?”