I counted every single blow.
One.
Two.
Three.
By the time my son struck me for the thirtieth time, my lip was torn, my mouth tasted like blood, and whatever denial I still held as a father… was gone.
He thought he was teaching me a lesson.
His wife, Emily, sat on the couch watching, wearing that quiet, cruel smile people have when they enjoy someone else’s humiliation.
My son believed youth, anger, and a mansion in Beverly Hills made him powerful.
What he didn’t realize?
While he was acting like a king…
I had already decided to take everything back.
My name is Arthur Hayes. I’m 68.
