Never a Father

I am never going to be a father.

I’ve known that for some time, but I never realized how devastating that is.

Sure, I’ve got three sons, but I’ve never been, nor ever will I be a father. My first two sons were taken from me in a bitter divorce, one in which visitation was never enforced, despite my best attempts.

I was able to have a limited relationship with one of them through his later teen years, and that was great. But I never realized how much I missed out on in the first ten years.

My third son, who is 13 right now, has a physical and mental disability. It’s like he’s stuck at 2. He’ll never talk. He’ll never walk. Communication with him is spotty through simple “Yes” and “No” hand signals. I know when he’s happy or sad, but that’s about it.

Recently, I had the opportunity to listen to four beautiful children in their home-schooled family situation. I heard their mother instructing them, encouraging them, correcting them. At one point, one talked to me about her math assignment. I happen to be very good at math, and even I found the problem challenging.

Then, I heard the father come home. I heard the beautiful moment when all four children greeted him. Sure, he sees it every day. He acknowledged them, brushed it off, and talked about work. He has no idea what he just brushed aside.

Oh, to hear, “Hi Dad!” when I come home from work. I’ve never had that joy, and I never will.

Oh, to hear, “Could you help me with my homework?” I’ve never had that joy, and I never will.

Fathers, cherish what you have. You wouldn’t want to miss out like me.