“Then sign the papers.”
I could not believe what I was hearing.
This was the son I had taught to tie his shoes. The boy I had comforted after his first heartbreak. The young man whose shoulder I had squeezed before he stood at the altar and married Jennifer.
How had that child become the man standing at the end of my driveway?
“This is unlawful,” I said. “You cannot block someone from leaving his own home.”
“Oh, I can,” he replied. “And I have.”
He pulled a folded document from his jacket pocket and held it up.
“This is the contract. It’s ready. All you need to do is sign it, and I’ll have the truck moved.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
I looked at the document, then at my son’s face.
I searched for some sign of the person I remembered.
There was nothing familiar in his expression.
