Five minutes after my divorce was final, my father gripped my arm outside the courthouse and said, “Block every card, right now.” That night my ex tried to spend $300,000 on his mistress’s sapphire necklace with my company’s black card — in a club my firm owned.

“Stop,” I said.

He stopped.

“You don’t get to do this,” I said. “You don’t get to stand in my lobby and perform understanding what kind of person you are. That’s not an apology. That’s you making me watch you feel bad, which is the last thing of mine you’re trying to take. I’m not giving it to you. Go home, Trevor. Your wages are garnished. Your girlfriend left you. The whole club knew for a year. My mother read you in 2016. You’ve lost everything you were going to lose and the only thing you’ve got left is the privilege of being quiet about it, and you can’t even manage that, you had to come to my lobby. Go home.”

He went.

Security watched him to the door.

My father, who’d come down to meet me for lunch and had seen the whole thing from across the lobby, walked over and said, “Was that him?”