To the father of my children, a familiar stranger, I don’t harbor anger towards you. Instead, I feel a deep sadness for what you’re missing.
You’re missing everything.
As I left my heart with you during my last visit, the first time you’d seen the kids in over a month, I was confronted yet again by the reality of your situation. The emptiness in your gaze was unmistakable—a void I’ve always recognized and tried to fill with love, both for you and for our sons.
I noticed the raspy tone of your voice, a telltale sign of too many cigarettes the night before. You had spent the day in bed, too sick to move, and I realized you would likely be unable to fulfill your responsibilities to our boys. The familiar scent of your hangover brought a wave of despair over me, reminding me of countless weekends past. With a heavy heart, I masked my pain and pretended everything was fine, only asking if you were okay.
You assured me you were fine, but I knew better.
You’re not fine. And you’re missing everything.
You should be the role model they look up to, the man they aspire to emulate. You should be the one teaching them how to navigate life and instilling in them a sense of reliability. But you’re not.
They love you, and they may look up to you, but you’re not guiding them. You texted me just hours after I left, admitting you were feeling unwell, though you avoided the real issue. “I know you won’t want to hear this, but I can’t stop throwing up and sweating. It’s kinda scaring me. And no, I haven’t been drinking.”
I recognized it as alcohol withdrawal; I had seen this pattern before. While part of me was relieved you acknowledged your state, it also comforted me to know that my instincts were right—my children needed to come home.
The anger I once felt has faded, replaced by a profound sadness. I pity your circumstances and those who fall for your charm and empty promises. I wish things could have been different, but I’ve moved on.
I never wanted to wish that you would let the boys down, but the truth is, you have.
While you waste your time in a haze, I am cherishing every moment with them. While you seek fleeting connections, I’m the one teaching them how to use their tools. While you sleep off your regrets, I’m the one snuggling our children. While you date casually, I’m forming lasting bonds, while yours are mere one-night stands.
You’re missing everything.
When you do manage to spend time with them, you waste it sending me texts about their antics, forgetting that I witness their brilliance every day. I know they’re hilarious; I’m the one who’s always been there to see it. You’re surprised by their knowledge as if it’s news to both of us. I know they’re smart because I’m the one teaching them. You marvel at their affection for one another, but I’m the one who’s instilled that love in them.
You’re missing everything.
You don’t know that Ethan loves to swing high, but only when he can see my face. You don’t know Connor prefers just a slight swing because anything more frightens him. You’re unaware that they’re learning to dress themselves in their unique ways, or that they all adore dancing. You don’t see Luke’s balance of wildness and sweetness. You’re oblivious to Connor’s shyness when he’s embarrassed. You won’t be there for their soccer and t-ball practices; it will be me cheering them on, my face they seek in the crowd.
You don’t know how to guide them into becoming gentlemen because you are still grappling with your own immaturity.
You’re missing everything.
When our children were born, my world transformed completely; yours, however, remained stagnant. You missed the magic of what we created and the significance of your role. You may have taken on that responsibility, but now you are letting it slip away.
I don’t harbor resentment anymore. I simply feel sorry for you, because you are missing everything, and I am not.