Eleanor always told me that I was such a doting father who would do anything for that boy. I admit that she was right, because I invested every single resource and emotion I had into his success.
When he needed a special preparatory course for his exams, I sold my favorite bicycle to pay the fees. When he went to the university, I sold my beloved Mustang and took out a loan to throw him a graduation party he would never forget.
When he married Tiffany in 2015, I gave them the land where they built a house that was much nicer than mine. I thought that was what a father was supposed to do for his children.
Over time, I began to realize that the dynamic of our relationship was shifting in a way that made me feel uneasy. Julian, who used to ask me for advice on everything, suddenly became very distant and cold.
The weekly visits became monthly, and the phone calls eventually dwindled down to almost nothing. Tiffany, who used to call me Dad, began to treat me with a chilling indifference that hurt me to my core.
I tried to tell myself it was just my imagination and that it was normal for a married man to focus on his own life. Eleanor always warned me that I had given the boy too much and that a spoiled child often becomes an ungrateful adult.
I never wanted to believe her until the year 2020, when my dear Eleanor suffered a massive stroke. She passed away in just two days, and that was when I finally discovered who my son had truly become.
At Eleanor’s funeral, I expected my son to be my pillar of strength and a companion in the grief that was tearing me apart. It was a naive hope that was quickly crushed by his behavior that afternoon.
Julian arrived twenty minutes late to the wake and did not even come to greet me when he finally walked through the doors. He went straight to talk to Tiffany, who was sitting in the back pews playing on her phone during the service.
Throughout the entire ceremony, I kept looking back, hoping he would come and sit beside me or hold my hand. He stayed in the back of the room answering messages as if he were in a waiting room rather than at his mother’s funeral.
When the minister asked if anyone wanted to share a memory, a heavy and painful silence fell over the chapel. I turned to meet my son’s eyes, hoping he would stand up to honor the woman who gave him life.
He didn’t even look at me, so I stood up with trembling legs and a voice that was ready to break. I spoke about the woman who shared forty five years of my life and who had raised Julian with endless patience.
I cried in front of everyone while speaking of her laughter and the scent of her perfume, but my son remained completely indifferent. After the burial, when the first shovels of dirt hit the casket, I collapsed to my knees in the grass.
