My kids cheered as my wife slammed divorce papers onto the top of my retirement cake. I signed them, stood up, and within minutes, she was the one begging me not to leave.

He laughed and glanced at Megan, his wife, standing by the bar in heels too sharp for the carpet. She gave a subtle nod. They had rehearsed this too.

“We need the keys,” Brandon said.

“The keys to what?”

He held out his hand and snapped at me.

“The cards. The house keys. The car keys. Mom’s lawyer said if you leave the marital home tonight, you don’t get to strip the place bare on your way out. We need to secure the assets.”

I studied him for a long moment.

I remembered him at eight, missing a front tooth, with a scraped knee, crying because his bike chain had slipped. I remembered driving him to Princeton for freshman orientation, Catherine bragging to anyone who would listen that our son would someday run the company. I remembered the way he stopped showing up on time for anything once he realized my money could cushion every fall.

And now he was standing between me and the door, snapping his fingers like I worked for him.

“You want the wallet?” I asked.