Three.
By the time his hand struck the thirtieth time, my cheek was a bruised mess, my jaw aching, and a split lip bled into my beard. I could hear the muffled thump of each strike like a metronome counting down to an inevitable conclusion. Amber’s smile never faded; it was as if she were watching a performance she’d rehearsed for years.
When he finally stepped back, breathing heavily, I felt a strange emptiness settle over me. Respect, hope, the excuses I’d told myself about “family loyalty” – they all slipped away with each hit. I wiped the blood from my mouth with the back of my hand, the taste of metal still clinging to my tongue.
“You think you’ve won, don’t you?” I whispered, more to myself than to him.
He didn’t answer. He just stared at the floor, his shoulders slumped as if the adrenaline had left him as quickly as it had arrived. Amber reached out, her hand hovering over my arm, then withdrew.
I gathered the brown‑wrapped gift, stood up slowly, and left the house without a word. The night air hit me like a cold splash, and for the first time in months I felt the wind against my face without the weight of my son’s anger pressing on my back.
The Morning I Sold the House
The next morning, the house was silent except for the low hum of the refrigerator and the faint ticking of a wall clock somewhere in the hallway. I drove back to my old sedan, the one I’d parked a few blocks away because the driveway was already filled with the sleek, polished cars of Brandon’s new world. My hands were still sore, but the ache in my chest was worse.
At 8:06 a.m., I called my lawyer, a stoic man who had handled more real‑estate deals than I’d built bridges. “I need to close the sale on Redwood Capital’s property at River Oaks,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.
He didn’t ask why. He just noted the request and promised to act.
