I said nothing.
“I thought because you were my mother, what you built eventually belonged to me.”
He swallowed.
“I thought your boundaries were temporary.”
“Your no meant not yet.”
“Your property meant future mine.”
“Your generosity meant debt you owed me again.”
My eyes burned.
He looked at me.
“I turned being your son into a claim.”
That was new.
Not therapy language entirely.
His.
Then:
“I don’t expect anything.”
“Good.”
He almost smiled.
“I knew you’d say that.”
“Then why ask to meet?”
“Because I wanted to tell you I finally understand the house.”
I frowned.
“What about it?”
“You didn’t take my house.”
His voice broke.
“I never had one.”
Silence.
He continued.
“You gave me a place to live.”
“I treated permission like ownership.”
“And when you reminded me…”
He started crying.
“I hurt you because reality humiliated me.”
I looked at my son.
Thirty-three years old now.
