studied his face.
For a moment, I remembered a completely different Ethan.
The little boy who used to run toward me after baseball practice.
The child who needed help building school projects at the kitchen table.
The teenager Linda stayed awake caring for whenever he was sick.
The young man whose future we’d spent decades trying to protect.
We’d given him love, stability, and every opportunity within our reach.
Somewhere along the way, he’d started confusing those gifts with ownership.
I spoke slowly.
“You’re my son, Ethan. That will never
