Fathers and Sons

I saw a post about fathers and sons today.

Being a son who truly adored his father and a father who loves his son—it’s the kind of post that touches a nerve.

I spoke to my father every day for over 25 years of my adult life—sometimes twice. I was so proud to call him my father. I talked about him constantly. I told my father-son stories to everyone.

I knew the best parts of me came from him.

The worst day in my life was the day I realized the man I adored, honored, and respected more than any other, was the same man who was abusing my daughter.

To say my world caved in or exploded would be an understatement.

In hindsight, there were red flags everywhere, but I missed them.

I missed them because my wife and I were fighting my son's medical crisis for five years.

I missed them because I was blinded by the way I saw my father.

I missed them because my father hid them well.

Since his arrest, I haven't spoken to a single member of my original family. Not my mother, my siblings, nieces, nephews—no one.

They all stood by my father. Most of them even worked for him.

When I pressed charges, I knew the price I would pay—that we would all pay.

I knew I would stand alone—with my wife and children—for the first time in our lives.

The alternative was that my daughter would carry the abuse alone—that she would live in a world without justice—where something like that could be swept under a rug.

But I was my father's son.

He gave me a profound sense of justice—and that is exactly what he would face.

It would nearly break me.