On my 66th birthday, my son and his wife handed me a color-coded list of house chores for twelve days, kissed my grandchildren goodbye under the old Virginia driveway lights, and flew off on an $11,200 Mediterranean cruise. No card. No cake. Not a single “happy birthday, Dad.” That night, alone in the garage apartment I’d been pushed into over the detached barn, I stumbled across an email he’d sent his wife about “transitioning Dad into an assisted living facility for the elderly.” I didn’t argue. I didn’t bang on their granite-and-steel kitchen island demanding respect. I picked up my phone, called a lawyer, and by the time their ship pulled back into port, everything they thought would always be waiting for them… wasn’t.
On my sixty-sixth birthday, my son and his wife handed me a list of house chores for twelve days, kissed[…]
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