To the father of my kids, a familiar face that feels like a stranger, I’m not angry with you. I feel pity for you.
You’re missing out on everything.
Last Friday, as I left my heart with you in your apartment for the first time in over a month, I was once again struck by your reality. I saw that same emptiness in your eyes—the emptiness I always tried to fill with my love and with our sons.
The raspy sound of your voice told me all I needed to know; you had spent the night before smoking too many cigarettes and the day sleeping away due to illness. I could smell the hangover on you, a familiar scent I had come to dread over the years. My heart sank as I faced the pain of leaving our children in your care, bringing back memories that washed over me like a wave.
I put on a smile, pretending everything was okay. I asked if you were feeling alright, but deep down, I knew the truth. You’re not fine. And the reality is, you’re missing everything.
You’re supposed to be a role model—someone they can look up to, someone who teaches them how to navigate life. But instead, you’re not showing them how to be men, and they can’t rely on you.
They adore you and, at this moment, look up to you, but that won’t last. You texted me later that evening, revealing your struggles without acknowledging the real issue: “I know you’re not gonna want to hear this, but I’m throwing up really bad and can’t stop sweating. It’s kinda scaring me. And no, I haven’t drank.”
I knew then you were in alcohol withdrawal, something I had seen many times before. Honestly, I was relieved to receive your message. Even without your clear acknowledgment of what caused your condition, my motherly instinct told me our boys needed me home. So, thank you for being wise enough to recognize you weren’t fit to care for them that night, even if you can’t admit the reason.
I no longer harbor anger toward you; it’s morphed into sadness. I pity your situation and the people who fall for your false charms. I wish things were different, but I’ve moved on.
The truth is, you’ve already distanced yourself from our boys. While you squander your time with them, I cherish every moment. While you get lost in reckless encounters, I’m teaching them valuable lessons, like how to use a toy tool set. While you sleep off your hangover, I snuggle our children. While you attempt to date multiple people, I’m forming lifelong connections with those who truly matter.
When you finally do see them, you waste time texting me about their funny remarks, forgetting I’m the one who hears them daily. I know they’re hilarious and smart because I’m the one educating them. You marvel at their affection for one another, but I’ve taught them how to love.
Selfishly consumed by your own world, you’re missing everything. You don’t realize Ethan loves being swung high on the swing to see my face, or that Connor prefers a gentle swing because he finds heights intimidating. You don’t know they’re learning to dress themselves, or their favorite foods, songs, and games. You have no idea how wild, strong, and sweet Luke has become. You won’t be there to cheer them on at soccer or t-ball practices—it will be my face they search for in the crowd.
You don’t know how to guide them toward gentlemanly behavior because you’re still lost in your own life. You’re missing everything.
When they were born, my world transformed. Yours remained unchanged. You overlooked the beauty of what we built together and failed to grasp the significance of your role. You never truly embraced that role, but you took it on. Now, you’re missing out on everything.
I’m not mad at you any longer. I just feel sorrow for you. You are missing everything. And I’m not.
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In summary, the journey of co-parenting can be painful and filled with regret when one parent chooses selfishness over family. While one parent may miss crucial moments, the other is left to nurture and cherish every experience.
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