My son won the lottery, kicked me out of the house, and said: “You’re worthless! Go live in a nursing home.” I wandered aimlessly to clear my mind. When I sat down on a bench, a homeless man walked up to me, smiled, and said: “You look just like my late wife…”

“Anything you have to say to me, you can say in front of your father.”

There was a long pause. “Dad’s really alive.”

The shock in his voice seemed genuine, and for a split second, I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

“Yes, Richard. The father you told me was dead 15 years ago is very much alive. The father you left homeless and penniless while you lived like a king off the money you stole from him.”

“I can explain everything, Mom. It’s not what you think. There were reasons, circumstances you don’t understand.”

“Then explain them in court,” I said coldly, “with your lawyer present and under oath like you’re going to have to do anyway.”

“Mom, please,” his voice cracked. “I’m losing everything. My house, my cars, my business. I can’t even buy groceries without begging the bank to release emergency funds. You have to help me.”