My son h!t me 30 times in front of his wife… so the next morning, while he sat in his office, I sold the house he thought was his.

That night, he came to my apartment.

Angry. Desperate.

“What’s wrong with you?” he demanded.

I looked at him.

“You hit me thirty times,” I said.
“And you think I’m the problem?”

He tried to justify it.

Said I provoked him.

That was when something inside me finally shut down.

“What do you want?” he asked.

I met his eyes.

“I want you out by Friday. I want you to face what you’ve done. And remember every number from one to thirty… before you ever raise your hand again.”