You’re not my son anymore.” Brady staggered as if he’d been struck.

And then, the two of them, in the same helpless instant, turned and looked at me — the lawyer, the fixer, the one who cleaned up every mess and paid every bill, their last lifeline in a sinking room.

I looked back at them and waited to feel something.

Grief, maybe, or the old reflexive pull to solve it.

There was nothing there but a great, level quiet.

“Don’t,” I said, before Brady could open his mouth.