-A Lie
I decided to focus on family, choosing to believe and have faith that everything else would fall into place. I wasn't comfortable-or good-at lying to her.
So, when Samantha surprised me one day by swallowing her pride and asking directly if a...
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Eventually, Nina and I ended our relationship, and other than a few cursory conversations of no real substance, we have not seen or heard from each other again.
I took the breakup hard and spent the next two years alone with my kids and my thoughts. I walked countless miles along the Neponset Riverfront. It was an ingrained habit from the past, something that started as a way to stay physically fit but gradually became more important for my mental health. Time spent walking cleared the fog from my head. My confidence was slowly regained, and I strived to see the positive in life again. Self-reflection led to self-forgiveness and allowed me to move forward.
I attempted to account for my actions in my marriage, where I placated and ignored my way through the harsh reality, hiding behind the image of what I pretended our lives to be—until, for me, hiding became unbearable. There's no escaping the fact that Samantha counted on my commitment, and when she needed it most, I failed her. For years, I avoided difficult actions that would have resulted in hurtful consequences. But by facing them head-on, at least I would have dealt honestly with the reality of our situation.
In these last years, I've done my best to help her where I can, without overstepping the boundaries of an ex-spouse. She will always be my children's mother, and in that role, forever a part of my life. She continues her battle with depression, and for that, there is no simple solution—just an ongoing challenge. For the sake of herself and our family, I hope she continues her therapy and medication regimen.
Disappointment could not have been avoided. Postponing for all those years only amplified the hurt for everyone, especially my children, who remain a constant in my life. They are the single greatest source of my love and pride—and my fear and frustration, too—as I've come to realize I have no real control over their choices. I am an example of both good and bad, but in either case, a model for them to learn from as they navigate their own lives.
Near the end of his life, my father gave me an unexpected gift. My family had gathered at my sister and brother-in-law's house. It was a beautiful morning, and the three of us—my younger brother Mike, my dad, and me—sat on the front porch, enjoying the weather and talking. Most of the conversation was between Mike and me, while Dad, bundled in a blanket, soaked up the sun and just listened.
I don't remember the exact details, just two brothers catching up, talking about recent events and our kids. But Dad surprised us with sudden emotion. Through his tears, he praised us for being good fathers.
I always knew he was proud of us, but something in those tears and words carried an echo of regret. I put my arm around him and said, "I don't know what you're thinking about, Dad, but you're a great father."
I've always been in awe of my dad's intelligence and valued his consistent, rational advice. I miss our long phone conversations, though I have to admit I often felt afterward that I had kept him talking longer than he was comfortable. But on that beautiful sunny day, the roles reversed. I spoke from my heart, and for once, I was the one consoling him. I believe it was exactly what he needed to hear.
I call it a gift from my father because any dad would understand—knowing how much his son needed to say those words, it would have filled his heart to provide the opportunity.
