MY SON HIT ME 30 TIMES IN FRONT OF HIS WIFE… SO THE NEXT MORNING, WHILE HE WAS SITTING IN HIS OFFICE, I SOLD THE HOUSE HE THOUGHT WAS HIS

I counted each of the slaps.

One. One.

Two.

Three.

By the time my son’s hand hit my face for the thirty-thirty-time, he had a split lip, his mouth knew me in blood and metal, and any denial that still stuck as a father had disappeared.

He thought he was teaching me a lesson.