I almost canceled the flight. I kept telling myself that Michael was thirty-five, successful, married, and perfectly capable of handling his own problems. But when I landed in Toronto for his birthday, I found his car sitting in the airport parking lot. The windows were completely fogged from the inside. As I approached, I saw three figures beneath a thin blanket. My son was curled against the glass, unshaven and exhausted, with my grandsons sleeping beside him. When he opened the door, I barely recognized the man standing before me.

Over pancakes, Michael finally told me everything. His wife, Jennifer, had secretly transferred the house into her name, drained the business account, and used fabricated messages to convince a judge that he was dangerous. He had lost his home, his money, and most of his time with his children. He hadn’t told me because he was ashamed. I looked at my grandsons, then back at my son. I knew immediately that this was bigger than a broken marriage. I reached across the table and said, “You’re not going back to that car. You’re coming with me. And then we’re going to fix this.”