I didn’t care about the screams that broke out behind me, or the sound of Jill aggressively demanding her husband’s phone as we walked away. I walked out of that steakhouse holding my son’s hand high. We went straight to a local diner down the street.

We ordered a massive stack of pancakes, extra bacon, and two chocolate milkshakes. As Mason happily drenched his pancakes in syrup, the smile returned to his face, brighter than ever. My phone was blowing up in my purse—dozens of frantic, furious texts from my mother, my sister, and my dad—but I didn’t care.

For the first time in twenty-five years, the garbage disposal was completely empty, and my son knew exactly what he was worth.