Turns out I wasn’t the only “selfish” older woman with an adult child who thought independence was negotiable.
One woman, maybe seventy, sat across from me after a session and said quietly, “My son keeps telling everyone I’m confused.”
My stomach tightened with recognition. “Are you?” I asked gently.
She shook her head, eyes shining with humiliation. “No,” she whispered. “I’m just saying no.”
I reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “Then you’re not confused,” I said. “You’re inconvenient.”
She let out a laugh that turned into a sob, and I understood something that made my throat ache.
What Brandon did wasn’t special.
It was common.
That made it worse, not better.
Brandon’s second court appearance came in July, right as the Outer Banks heat settled thick over the dunes. He walked into the courthouse looking like a man who hadn’t slept well in months. Thinner. Paler. Less certain.
His lawyer asked for a “path forward.” She argued that Brandon was “emotional” and “struggling financially” and needed “family reconciliation.”
Sarah didn’t blink.