My son froze my cards so I couldn’t even buy groceries. He thinks he controls our $42 million empire—but one call from the bank made me realize he has no idea what I’m about to do. First my credit card declined. Then my debit.

The sentence was so casual it took me a second to comprehend it.

“He what?”

“He said it was time for boundaries.”

Boundaries. That word. God, how the selfish love therapeutic language. They wrap greed in vocabulary stolen from healing and expect the rest of us to applaud the sophistication.

Desmond came into the foyer behind her then, and for a second my heart did a terrible, hopeful thing because from a distance he still looked so much like his father that it could catch me unprepared. Same shoulders. Same dark hair, though trimmed in a more fashionable style than Warren ever tolerated. Same height. Same broad hands. But Warren had always carried warmth toward me in his face, even when he was angry. Desmond’s expression was flat and cold and already decided.

“Yeah,” he said. “I froze them.”

He did not look sorry. He did not look nervous. He looked inconvenienced by my arrival.

“We need to have a serious conversation about your spending, Mom,” he said. “Somebody has to protect the family assets.”

For one long beat, I heard nothing but a high-pitched rushing in my ears. Then the words landed one at a time and arranged themselves into meaning.

“Protect the family assets,” I repeated.