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.

Then, in front of everyone, he said he was tired of me showing up expecting gratitude in a house that had nothing to do with me.

So I told him calmly:

“Don’t forget who built the ground you’re standing on.”

That was enough.

He stood up.

Shoved me.

Then started hitting me.

And I counted.

Not because I was weak.

Because I was finished.

Each strike stripped something away—love, hope, excuses.