“If you tell me no one one more time, I swear you’ll regret ever having me.”

When my son Brandon said those words in our kitchen in a quiet suburb outside Dallas, Texas, I tried to convince myself it was only another angry episode—one more excuse I had held onto for months because I was not ready to admit what had become painfully clear.

But that night, I was no longer seeing a lost, confused boy.

I was seeing a twenty-three-year-old man who had learned how to turn disappointment into fear.

Brandon had always been tall and broad, the kind of person who seemed to take up space the moment he entered a room. As a child, he had been loving, full of energy, and curious about everything. He used to run into the house with dandelions from the backyard and declare them treasure.

Somewhere over the years, that little boy vanished.

At first, I blamed the divorce. His father, Richard Collins, moved away after our marriage ended. Then I blamed college when Brandon dropped out after just one year. Then I blamed his job problems when he kept losing one position after another. Then I blamed heartbreak when his girlfriend left him.

Eventually, there were no excuses left.