When my son sl:apped me for interrupting his video game, I just lowered my head and walked to the kitchen. I spent three hours baking his favorite triple-chocolate cake

breakfast rolls he never bothered to eat.

“Evan,” I whispered.

He didn’t look guilty.

He looked irritated.

“You walked in front of the screen,” he snapped. “I lost because of you.”

My cheek burned instantly. My left ear rang. He was twenty-two years old, over six feet tall, unemployed, and still living inside the bedroom I painted blue when he was eight continue reading …