Part 2: My son h.i.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.

The little child who climbed into my lap during thunderstorms.

Who brought me crooked drawings and called them masterpieces.

Who cried when Henry died.

Then he looked away.

"Malcolm said the house should have been mine."

I swallowed.

"Why?"

"He said Dad wanted me to have it."

My heart tightened.

"Your father left a will, Trevor."

He nodded.

"Malcolm said you changed it."

I stared at him.

"What?"

Trevor looked up.

"He said Dad intended Cedarline to pass to me. That you'd been keeping it for yourself."

I felt sick.

For almost two decades, someone had been feeding my son a story about betrayal.

And Trevor had turned that story into entitlement.

I stepped closer.

"Your father wanted you to be happy."

Trevor's eyes filled.

"But he also wanted you to become someone who could be trusted with responsibility."

My voice broke.

"He would never have wanted you to hurt me."