On Christmas morning, my millionaire son asked if Amanda’s $5,000 monthly support had finally made me comfortable.

I’m warm. There’s a difference.”

That was the final thing I said to her in my house.

Peter collected his documents. Amanda stood, but she did not move toward the door immediately. Her eyes traveled to the Christmas tree, to the old ornaments made from felt and glue, to the photograph of Daniel at seven years old with his two front teeth missing.

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