. . .

Dad

I used to read a lot, when I was a kid. My mom got me hooked on it early, and I only outgrew the urge later on. There was an occasional theme that ran through it all of the absentee father - that guy who deserted his family when things got rough. Sometimes he turned out to be abusive, sometimes just a slacker, but you never really felt much sympathy for him. He should have been more careful, or more perceptive, or something. He was a character type I really hated.

Now I'm him. I've got a son, and I left him.

I'm not trying to make excuses for myself. I just wanted to get this all down so, maybe, through some strange set of circumstances, my son will read this, and he'll finally understand and forgive me. Knowing my side of the family, though, he'll have enough of a temper to him that he'll be reading this with my body cooling in the other room. I've got some of that temper, too.

I don't know his mother's side of the family at all. Less even than I thought I did.

Well, here it is, boy. I might as well write to you, since you're the only audience but me I ever want to have. Hope you grew up good. Can't expect it, but I can hope.

Anyway, I'm trying to tell the story of your mother, and why I left her. You probably know bits and pieces of it by now, but I want you to know my side of things.