To My Son, I’m Sorry You’re Reading This
Boy, that headline sounds like the first line in a suicide note. No, no, Harrison, my son, this is not a suicide note. It’s an apology letter. Or an explanation. Maybe a clarification. I’m not sure what your mother has told you, or what you’ve already heard or read, but I feel it is imperative that you have some background, context really, on what you may have already heard or read, or undoubtedly will.It's only right that a son knows who his father is — the kind of man his father is.
The stomach tightens and sinks.
The heart and lungs follow.
It’s a confounding reaction to a receipt of affection.
It’s familiar, and, therefore, oddly comforting.
But familiarity can be a curse.
A cursed reminder of what once went wrong when you were just trying to do things right this time.
This time it’ll be different, you say.
Why? You’re different, but what are you doing differently?