else that had happened that day.
Not because of Vanessa.
Because of the shame in my son’s voice.
“Grant, you didn’t do this.”
“I let it happen.”
His eyes filled with tears.
I had rarely seen my adult son cry.
Vanessa placed her hand on his shoulder.
“Can we please stop?”
Grant moved away again.
“No. That’s exactly the problem.”
She frowned.
“What problem?”
“You decide when every conversation is finished.”
Her expression hardened.
Grant’s voice became steadier.
“You decide where we go. You decide when our plans change. You
