I closed my eyes, leaned back into my leather chair, and the idea appeared again. This time, however, I let it hover, I flicked it, drifted over it, looked at it from a different angle, cupped it in my hand, and then pushed it away.
But it returned. I had unearthed a truth that would not be ignored. It was a thought that felt both shameful and illuminating.
Fathers can’t think this.
I pressed one key, then the next, slowly, reluctantly.
Sometimes. Some of the time, I…
wish…
I’d…
never…
had kids.
Sometimes, I hate them…for the pain and heartache they have brought me.
I stopped and stared at the words. I felt no better or worse about the secret glaring at me. The words seemed sharp and sinful, but somehow true and undeniable. Slowly, I moved my forefinger to the delete key. My sons could never see that entry.
I didn’t realize it, but I would be wrestling with these feelings and rehashing these same thoughts for years. I had only just begun to uncover my own anger and frustration, and the role I had played in my son’s struggles. For now, it was locked up, shrouded in fog, distorted by shame, and warped by frustration. I had no idea how to process all this, or how to connect with my son in prison, or how to be helpful to my wife, or how to help my other sons.
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