My son stood in the middle of my trashed living room, surrounded by his freeloading friends, and had the nerve to offer me a drink from the hundred-dollar bottle of whiskey he’d just stolen from his father.
This was my twenty-four-year-old son, by the way.
My home had become his personal hotel for six long months. A self-cleaning, self-stocking paradise where he paid for nothing and contributed less. His lies about job hunting were as constant as the mountain of his dirty laundry blocking the hallway. He wasn’t just lazy; he was a thief, plundering our emergency savings for festival tickets and gaming gear.
He thought he was playing his soft-hearted mother, but he was about to discover he’d created a meticulous bookkeeper who was ready to serve him a final, itemized bill in the form of a legally binding eviction.
The Stillness Before the Storm: The Empty Carton
It’s the little things that break you. Not the big, dramatic explosions, but the tiny, cumulative cuts. For me, it was the milk carton.
I’d just finished a twelve-hour shift at the hospice. A long day of holding hands, adjusting pillows, and talking to families about the inevitable. My emotional reserves were running on fumes. All I wanted was to come home, kick off my scrubs, and make a cup of tea so strong it could dissolve a spoon.
Mark’s car was in the driveway, which meant he was already home from the firm, probably decompressing in his office. The house was quiet. Too quiet. A specific kind of quiet that meant our twenty-four-year-old son, Liam, was home, headphones on, existing in a different dimension where chores and responsibilities were abstract concepts, like string theory.
I dropped my bag by the door, the keys clattering against the hardwood floor. The scent of stale pizza and something vaguely sweet, like spilled energy drink, hung in the air. I navigated a pair of size twelve sneakers that had been abandoned in the middle of the hallway like fallen monoliths.
In the kitchen, I pulled open the refrigerator door, the cool air a brief relief. And there it was. The milk carton, sitting on the top shelf, right where it should be. It felt light. Too light. I picked it up. Empty. Not a single drop left. He’d put an empty carton back in the fridge.
A wave of exhaustion, so profound it felt like a physical weight, settled on my shoulders. It wasn’t just the milk. It was the complete, staggering, thoughtless void where consideration for another human being should have been. I closed my eyes, picturing him finishing the last of it, then, with zero internal debate, simply placing the hollow container back on the shelf. A problem for future me.
I shut the refrigerator door with a little more force than necessary. No tea tonight. Just the familiar, bitter taste of resentment.
A Mountain of Someone Else’s Laundry
The path to our laundry room was an obstacle course. Liam’s hamper, a flimsy mesh thing I’d bought him in a fit of misplaced optimism, was overflowing. A veritable mountain of denim, cotton, and God knows what else cascaded onto the floor, blocking half the hallway.
I stood there, looking at it. Dark jeans tangled with white t-shirts. A damp towel, probably festering for days, was balled up on top. It was his laundry. His responsibility. A simple, basic task of adult life that he treated with the same regard as astrophysics.
Mark appeared at the end of the hall, a file in his hand. “Hey, Sarah. Tough day?”
He saw the laundry pile. He saw my face. A practiced, weary look crossed his features. “I’ll talk to him,” he said, the same four words he’d been saying for six months.
“When, Mark?” I asked, my voice flat. “He’s been home since he ‘lost’ his job at the warehouse. Six months of you ‘talking to him.’ The pile just gets bigger.”
“He’s just… figuring things out,” Mark offered, a weak defense that crumbled in the face of the smelly, physical evidence between us.
I didn’t want Mark to talk to him. I didn’t want to be the nagging wife, the shrewish mother. I just wanted to be able to walk down my own hallway without having to perform a high-wire act over my adult son’s dirty underwear. I wanted the basic courtesy of a shared living space.
Without another word, I started picking up the clothes, my movements stiff and angry. I wasn’t doing his laundry. I was just clearing a path. Each piece of clothing I tossed back into his hamper felt like a small, bitter defeat.
The Phantom Job Search
Later that evening, I found Liam exactly where I knew he’d be: slouched in my favorite armchair in the living room, the glow of his laptop illuminating his face. The rhythmic click-clack of his keyboard filled the silence.
“Find anything promising?” I asked, trying to keep my tone neutral.
He didn’t look up. “Just scrolling through some listings on LinkedIn,” he mumbled, his eyes locked on the screen.
I walked closer, my shadow falling over him. It wasn’t LinkedIn on the screen. It was a video game, some fantasy world with brightly colored explosions and a detailed inventory of swords and potions. The clicking wasn’t a keyboard; it was a high-end gaming mouse. My mouse, actually. The one I use for my photo editing hobby.
A hot flash of anger shot through me. The lie was so casual, so effortless. He didn’t even have the decency to hide what he was doing. He assumed I was either too tired or too stupid to notice.
“Liam, that doesn’t look like LinkedIn.”
He finally looked up, his expression a perfect mask of annoyed innocence. “I was just taking a five-minute break, Mom. Jeez. The market is brutal right now. You have no idea how demoralizing it is.”
He was an artist of deflection. He could spin any confrontation into a narrative where he was the victim, and I was the unreasonable one. The pressure, the economy, the unfairness of it all. It was never his fault. Never his lack of effort.
“A five-minute break that’s lasted since I got home two hours ago,” I said.
He sighed, a great, dramatic exhalation of a martyr. “Okay, you know what? I can’t do this with you standing over me. I’ll look later.” He snapped the laptop shut, pulled out his phone, and immediately became absorbed in it, effectively ending the conversation. I was dismissed. A minor annoyance in his day of leisure.
A Promise Etched in Sand
That night, lying in bed, the silence of the house felt heavy. Mark was reading, but I knew he wasn’t really absorbing the words on the page.
“He lied to my face again,” I said to the ceiling.
Mark put his book down. “I know. I heard.”
“This isn’t working, Mark. This was supposed to be temporary. ‘Just until he gets back on his feet.’ That was the deal.”
I remembered the conversation so clearly. Liam, standing in our doorway with two duffel bags, his story a tangled mess of a tyrannical boss and a backstabbing coworker. He’d looked so lost, so young. My heart had gone out to him. Of course, he could stay. Our son. Our home.
“He’ll get there,” Mark said, but his voice lacked conviction. He was the eternal optimist, the peacemaker. He wanted to believe that our son, the bright, funny kid we raised, was still in there somewhere, just buried under a layer of apathy.
“His feet are firmly planted on my last nerve,” I muttered. “He contributes nothing. He doesn’t clean, he doesn’t pay for his own food, he treats this house like a self-stocking, self-cleaning hotel. We’re not helping him, Mark. We’re enabling him. We’re teaching him that life has no consequences.”
“So, what do you want to do? Kick him out onto the street?” The question hung in the air, thick with guilt and parental obligation. It was the nuclear option, the one we both feared.
“I don’t know,” I admitted, and the words felt like a confession of failure. “But I know this can’t go on. Something is going to break.”
And as I turned over, trying to find sleep that wouldn’t come, I had a terrifying premonition that the thing that was going to break was me.
The Cracks Begin to Show: The Sound of Silence
I decided to try a new strategy: strategic neglect. It felt petty, childish even, but I was desperate. If he wanted to live like a slob, fine. But I wasn’t going to be his maid anymore.
I stopped clearing his dishes from the coffee table. I stopped wiping down the counters after he made a midnight snack that looked like a science experiment gone wrong. I stepped over the shoes in the hallway. I let the overflowing trash can in the kitchen sit, a monument to his inaction.
My home, my sanctuary, began to look like a frat house after a week-long bender. A sticky ring from a soda can became a permanent feature on the end table. A fine dusting of cracker crumbs covered the living room rug. The smell of garbage began to permeate the kitchen.
It was a miserable failure. The only person I was punishing was myself. Liam seemed utterly oblivious, a creature perfectly adapted to his own filth. He navigated the chaos with an unbothered grace, simply moving his mess to a new location when the old one became too cluttered.
Mark noticed. “Sarah, the house…” he began one evening, his nose wrinkled as he walked into the kitchen.
“I know,” I said, my voice tight. “It’s an experiment. I’m waiting to see how long it takes for him to notice he lives in a dump.”
“I don’t think he’s going to notice,” Mark said quietly. “He doesn’t see it. For him, this is just… background.”
He was right. I was waging a silent war that only I was fighting. My passive aggression was a whisper against the hurricane of his entitlement. The house was suffering, I was suffering, and Liam was probably ordering another pizza to add to the growing tower of boxes next to the back door.
A Favor Wrapped in Barbs
A few days into my failed protest, Liam ambushed me as I was getting ready for work. He leaned against the doorframe of my bedroom, scrolling on his phone.
“Hey, Mom. I need the car today,” he said. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of fact.
“I need the car for work, Liam.”
“Can’t you take Mark’s?”
“Mark has a deposition in the city. He needs his car.”
He let out an exasperated sigh, the sound of someone being deeply inconvenienced. “Well, I have an interview. It’s a really good opportunity. In Stamford.”
A tiny, stupid flicker of hope ignited in my chest. An interview? Maybe he was finally trying. “Really? Where?”
“It’s, uh, for a graphic design startup. It’s a big deal,” he said, the details vague. “I can’t exactly take the bus. I need to look professional.”
The flicker of hope died. It was the tone. The way he said it implied that my needing the car for my actual, paying job—the job that paid for his food, his internet, his existence—was a roadblock to his far more important, hypothetical career.
“I have to be at the hospice by eight,” I said, looking at the clock. “My patients are waiting.”
“Fine,” he huffed, pushing himself off the doorframe. “I guess I’ll just have to cancel. Sucks, because this one was, like, a guaranteed offer. But whatever. I’ll find something else. Eventually.”
The emotional blackmail was as subtle as a punch to the gut. He was framing it so that if he didn’t get this mythical job, it would be my fault. My selfishness.
I felt the familiar rage building, but I swallowed it down. It was too early for a fight. “There’s fifty dollars in the kitchen jar for emergencies,” I said, my voice clipped. “That’s enough for an Uber there and back. If the interview is real, you’ll find a way to get there.”
He stared at me for a moment, his face a mixture of shock and disgust, as if I’d just suggested he travel by horse and buggy. Then he turned and stomped down the hall, leaving me feeling both furious and deeply, profoundly guilty.
The Disappearing Safety Net
The text message arrived while I was in a patient’s room, helping her sip some water. It was a fraud alert from my credit card company. *Did you just spend $1,857.99 at ‘Gamer’s Nexus’? Reply YES or NO.*
My blood ran cold. That was my emergency card. The one I kept in my desk drawer at home, the one with a high limit that we’d agreed to never touch unless the roof caved in or one of us ended up in the hospital.
I quickly typed NO and excused myself from the room, my heart hammering against my ribs. I pulled up the banking app on my phone, my hands shaking so badly I could barely type my password.
There it was. The charge from Gamer’s Nexus for $1,857.99. And below it, another one. $650.00. ‘VibeFest USA – Ticket Purchase.’
I felt the air leave my lungs. VibeFest. The music festival he and his friends had been talking about for weeks. He’d complained endlessly about how broke he was, how he was going to miss the best lineup of the year.
He had gone into my desk. He had taken my emergency credit card. And he had bought a top-of-the-line gaming chair and VIP festival tickets.
It wasn’t just the money, though God knows we couldn’t afford an unexpected two-and-a-half-thousand-dollar hit. It was the violation. The absolute, breathtaking audacity of it. He had plundered our safety net for his own fleeting entertainment without a second thought. My desk, my private space. Our financial security. It meant nothing to him.
I leaned against the cool wall of the hospice hallway, the quiet hum of the building a stark contrast to the screaming chaos in my head. The image of the empty milk carton flashed in my mind. It was all connected. The laundry, the lies, the mess, the money. It was a pattern of profound, staggering selfishness that I had allowed to fester in my home.
This was not a mistake. This was a choice. A deliberate act of theft and betrayal.
The Cold Arithmetic of Betrayal
I didn’t go home right away. I couldn’t. I drove to a small park overlooking the sound and just sat in my car, the fraud alert still glowing on my phone screen.
The initial shock was wearing off, replaced by something colder and harder. A crystalline rage. For the first time, I wasn’t just hurt or frustrated. I was done.
I pulled a notebook and a pen from my glove compartment. With methodical precision, I started to write. I wasn’t just calculating the credit card debt. I was calculating the cost of Liam.
Groceries: approximately $150 a week, just for his share. For six months, that was $3,600. Utilities: the endless hot showers, the gaming computer running 24/7. I estimated an extra $200 a month. That was $1,200. Car insurance, his phone bill, the “loans” that were never repaid. The number grew, page after page.
But then I started listing the things without a price tag. The hours spent cleaning up his messes. The sleepless nights. The arguments with Mark. The constant, grinding anxiety of living in a home that no longer felt like my own. The emotional toll was incalculable.
I looked at the final, staggering sum on the page, the numbers representing my son’s parasitic existence in our lives. The deal was broken. The promise we’d made to help him was null and void, because he hadn’t held up his end. He hadn’t tried. He had just taken.
My hand was steady now. The shaking had stopped. I picked up my phone, but I didn’t call Mark. He would want to talk it out, to find a middle ground, to give him another chance. There were no more chances.
I scrolled through my contacts and found the number for an old college friend, Jessica, who worked as a paralegal.
“Hey, Jess, it’s Sarah,” I said when she answered, my voice even and calm. “I have a question for you about tenancy law. Specifically, how to legally evict a family member who has no lease.”
The Unraveling: The Smell of Rebellion
The drive home was eerily calm. I had a plan. The rage was no longer a hot, blinding thing; it was a tool, sharp and focused. I had the printouts from the credit card company in my bag. I had a draft of a legally binding eviction notice that Jessica had emailed me, tailored to our state’s laws. Thirty days. It was official.
When I pulled into the driveway, I knew something was wrong. Music was bleeding through the closed windows, a pulsing bass line that vibrated in my chest. Several cars I didn’t recognize were parked haphazardly along the curb.
I walked through the front door into a war zone.
The house was trashed. Empty beer bottles and red plastic cups littered every surface. A sticky, dark puddle—probably a mix of beer and soda—was spreading across the hardwood floor in the living room. The air was thick with the smell of stale booze, weed, and a cloying, fruity vape smoke. Strangers, kids who couldn’t have been much older than twenty, were lounging on my furniture, my couch, my chairs, as if they owned the place.
Someone had put a lampshade on my favorite floor lamp. A real, honest-to-god lampshade-on-the-head party cliché was happening in my living room.
My home had been invaded. This wasn’t just a mess anymore. This was a hostile takeover. I saw Liam in the kitchen, laughing with some girl, holding a bottle of Mark’s good whiskey—the expensive single malt we saved for special occasions. He looked up, saw me standing in the doorway, and his smile didn’t even falter.
“Hey, Mom! You’re home early,” he said, his voice loud over the music. “We were just hanging out. Want a drink?”
He gestured with the bottle of my husband’s $100 whiskey as if he were offering me a glass of water. The sheer, unadulterated nerve of it was breathtaking. He had invited a dozen people into our home without permission, was serving them our liquor, and was acting like I was the one intruding on *his* evening.
A Tour of the Biohazard
I didn’t answer him. I just turned and walked down the hall, my shoes sticking to the floor with every step. I could feel his eyes, and the eyes of his friends, on my back. The music seemed to falter for a second, the partygoers sensing the sudden shift in the atmosphere.
I pushed open the door to his bedroom.
The word “messy” was wholly inadequate. This was a biohazard. A mountain of clothes, both clean and dirty, was piled in the center of the room, so high it almost touched the ceiling fan. Plates with fossilized remnants of food were stacked on his nightstand, some growing a faint green fuzz. Empty energy drink cans and pizza boxes were everywhere, overflowing the small trash can and creating their own satellite landfills around the room.
The smell hit me like a physical blow—a rancid combination of stale sweat, old food, and dust. It was the smell of utter neglect. Of a person who had zero respect for his surroundings, for the property of others, for himself.
This was my house. The room my son grew up in. The room where I’d once read him bedtime stories and tucked him in at night. And he had turned it into a garbage dump. A nest.
I stood in the doorway, taking it all in. This was the final piece of evidence. This was the visual representation of the chaos he had brought into our lives. It wasn’t just a messy room; it was a symptom of the deeper sickness, of the entitlement and apathy that had consumed him.
I slowly backed out of the room and gently closed the door, as if sealing a tomb. I was no longer just evicting a mooch. I was performing an exorcism.
The Final Bill
I walked back into the living room. The music was lower now, the vibe uncertain. Liam was standing by the kitchen archway, a flicker of apprehension finally appearing in his eyes.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t need to. The cold fury in my tone cut through the air more effectively than any shout could. “Everyone needs to leave,” I said, my gaze sweeping over the unfamiliar faces. “This party is over. Get out of my house. Now.”
There was a frantic scramble of people grabbing jackets and phones. No one argued. They could see it on my face. Within two minutes, the house was empty, save for me and Liam. The sudden silence was deafening, broken only by the hum of the refrigerator.
Liam’s apprehension had curdled into defensive anger. “What the hell, Mom? You totally embarrassed me in front of my friends!”
“Embarrassed you?” I let out a short, sharp laugh devoid of any humor. “You want to talk about embarrassment, Liam?”
I walked to my bag, took out the credit card statements, and slapped them down on the sticky kitchen counter. “Let’s talk about this. $1,857.99 at Gamer’s Nexus. $650 for VibeFest. On my emergency credit card. The one you stole from my desk.”
He paled. The color drained from his face as he looked at the papers. He opened his mouth, a lie already forming on his lips. “I… I was gonna pay you back.”
“With what money, Liam?” I asked, my voice dangerously quiet. “The money from the job you don’t have? The one you were supposed to be looking for while you were playing video games on my laptop and planning your festival weekend on my dime?”
He had no answer. He just stared at the statements, trapped.
The Paper Tiger
“This is not a hotel,” I said, each word a carefully placed stone. “And I am not your maid, or your ATM.”
I reached back into my bag and pulled out the second document. The eviction notice. I unfolded it and laid it on the counter next to the credit card bills. The formal, legal language stood in stark contrast to the chaos of the room around us.
“What is this?” he whispered, his eyes wide with disbelief.
“It’s a thirty-day notice to quit,” I said. “It’s legally binding. You have thirty days to find somewhere else to live and get your act together.”
He stared at the paper as if it were written in a foreign language. The full implication was slowly dawning on him, cracking through his thick shell of entitlement. This wasn’t a lecture. This wasn’t a threat. This was real.
“You’re kicking me out?” His voice cracked. “You can’t do that. I’m your son!”
“And I’m your mother,” I shot back, my voice finally rising. “A mother who is done. Done with the lies, the disrespect, the filth, the theft. Every cent you owe me, every ruined item in this house, every hour of sleep I’ve lost because of your selfishness—it all ends today. Consider this your final bill for the ‘free ride.’”
Suddenly, the bravado was gone, replaced by pure, panicked terror. “Mom, no. Please. I’ll get a job. I’ll pay you back! I’ll clean! Please, don’t do this!” The tears welling in his eyes weren’t of remorse; they were of fear. The fear of a parasite about to be detached from its host.
Just then, Mark walked in, home from his late night at the office. He took in the scene—the trashed house, Liam crying, the papers on the counter, my face set like stone.
“Sarah, what’s going on?”
Liam ran to him, a drowning man grabbing for a raft. “Dad, she’s kicking me out! You have to stop her!”
Mark looked at me, his face a storm of confusion and concern. “Sarah?”
I met his gaze, my own unwavering. “It’s done, Mark,” I said, my voice leaving no room for negotiation. “It’s done.”
The Aftermath and the Abyss: The Echoes in the Hallway
The fight was ugly. After Liam stormed off to his room, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the pictures on the wall, Mark turned on me.
“An eviction notice, Sarah? A legal document? To our own son? Isn’t that a little… extreme?”
“Extreme?” I stared at him, incredulous. “Look around you, Mark. Look at this house. He threw a party, stole thousands of dollars from us, and has been lying to our faces for months. What part of that doesn’t call for an extreme response?”
I explained everything—the credit card, the lies, the cold calculation I’d made in the car. I showed him the numbers. I laid bare the full extent of the problem, a problem he had been content to minimize and ignore.
“He’s lost, Sarah. He’s our boy. He needs our help, not a legal threat.” His voice was pleading, but it was laced with the tired excuses I could no longer stomach.
“We have been helping him,” I said, my voice shaking with a righteous fury that had been simmering for half a year. “We’ve been helping him fail. We’ve been helping him become a lazy, entitled man-child who believes the world owes him everything. I will not help him do that anymore. My help is now conditional on him helping himself. And that starts with him leaving this house.”
We argued for over an hour, circling the same points of parental guilt versus stark reality. For the first time, I didn’t back down. I didn’t concede a single point. This was a boundary I would not allow to be moved.
Finally, exhausted, he sank onto one of the few clean spots on the couch. “I don’t know if I can do this, Sarah. Throw him out on the street.”
“He has thirty days,” I said, my voice softening slightly. “Thirty days to find a job, a roommate, a solution. That’s more of a safety net than most people get. But the net is being pulled in. He either learns to fly, or he falls. The choice is his.”
The house was quiet after that, filled only with the echoes of our argument and the silent, raging storm behind Liam’s closed door.
Thirty Days of Purgatory
The next thirty days were the longest of my life. The atmosphere in the house was thick with a toxic blend of resentment, fear, and awkward silence. It was a cold war fought over the dinner table and in the hallways.
Liam cycled through a series of tactics. First came the sullen silence. He would glide through the house like a ghost, refusing to make eye contact, his headphones a permanent fixture. He was punishing us with his absence, hoping the quiet would unnerve me into changing my mind. It didn’t.
Then came the pathetic pleading. He’d find me alone, his eyes red-rimmed, and launch into a litany of promises. He’d get a job tomorrow. He’d pay back every penny. He’d scrub the whole house with a toothbrush. They were the desperate, hollow words of someone who still believed he could manipulate his way back into comfort. I just pointed to the calendar on the fridge, where I had circled his departure date in red marker.
The final stage was angry outbursts. He accused me of being a heartless monster, of never loving him, of wanting to ruin his life. He tried to triangulate, calling his grandparents to tell them a sob story about his cruel mother. He tried to guilt Mark, hoping to find a crack in our united front.
Through it all, I held the line. It was agonizing. Every maternal instinct I had screamed at me to fix it, to smooth it over, to bring my child back into the fold. But a stronger, newer instinct, the instinct for self-preservation, held me fast. I was saving myself, and in a strange, painful way, I was giving him the only chance he had at saving himself.
He did, to my surprise, get a job. A week before his deadline, he came home reeking of fryer oil. He’d gotten a job at a fast-food joint on the other side of town. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was a start. He’d also found two of his party friends who were looking for a third roommate for their rundown apartment. He was figuring it out, not because he wanted to, but because he had no other choice.
The Weight of the Door Closing
The thirtieth day arrived. It was a gray, drizzly Saturday. Liam packed his belongings into black trash bags and a few battered suitcases. He didn’t have much. His gaming computer, his clothes, a few books.
The house was eerily silent as he made trips back and forth to his friend’s beat-up sedan. Mark stood awkwardly by the door, a pained expression on his face. I stayed in the kitchen, watching through the window, my stomach a tight knot of conflicting emotions.
When the last bag was in the car, he came back inside. He stood in the entryway, refusing to look at me.
“Well,” he said to the floor. “I guess this is it.”
“Liam,” Mark started, but Liam cut him off.
He finally looked at me, and his eyes were filled with a cold, hard resentment that was more painful than any of his yelling had been. “I hope you’re happy,” he said, his voice dripping with venom. “You finally got what you wanted.”
Then he turned and walked out the door, not slamming it, but closing it with a soft, final click that seemed to echo through the entire house.
I stood there for a long time, listening to the sound of the car driving away, until the rain was the only thing I could hear. There was no triumph. No righteous celebration. Just a vast, hollow emptiness where my son used to be. Mark came and put his arm around me. I didn’t cry. I felt numb, scoured out. I had won the battle, but the cost felt immense.
A Clean Slate, A Stained Conscience
The next morning, I woke up and the house was quiet. But it was a different kind of quiet. It was peaceful. The oppressive weight that had been pressing down on us for months was gone.
I spent the entire day cleaning. It was a ritual, a reclaiming of my space. I started with his room. I put on rubber gloves and a face mask and filled six large trash bags with the garbage he’d left behind. I scrubbed the floors, washed the walls, and opened the window to let the fresh, clean air chase out the last of the stale, sour smell.
As I worked, I felt the tension in my shoulders begin to unclog. With every bag of trash I hauled to the curb, I felt lighter. Mark helped. We didn’t talk much, but we worked together, a silent, synchronized team, patching the wound our son had left in our home.
By evening, the house was spotless. It smelled of lemon cleaner and fresh laundry. It was our home again. Our sanctuary.
I was putting away the last of the cleaning supplies when I found something tucked under the cushion of the armchair he always used. It was a photograph, old and faded. It was from a family vacation to the Grand Canyon years ago. A much younger Liam, maybe seven or eight, was sitting on Mark’s shoulders, his face split by a wide, gap-toothed grin, pointing at something in the distance. He looked so happy, so full of potential.
I sank into the chair, the photograph clutched in my hand, and finally, I cried. I cried for the little boy in the picture and for the angry man who had left my house yesterday. I cried from relief and from guilt. I cried because I knew I had done the right thing, the only thing I could do.
And I cried because I had no idea if my son, the real one, would ever find his way home again. The ride was over, the bill had been paid, but the slate, I feared, would never be truly clean
About the Author
