I remember when I found out you were stalking my blog. Crowbait in my visitor's feed caused me pause, and a few clicks led me to pages and pages of vitriol aimed at me, what I had written, and how I was disappointing you in every way you could think of.
Part of me was flattered, as sick as that sounds, that someone had spent so much time and energy looking at the words I had written and writing their thoughts. What hurt was that you called me worthless, said that you wanted to cut my limb from the family tree, and misinterpreted everything I wrote about you.
Which somehow sounds familiar. Hm. That's a disturbing thought.
So I wanted you to know how I truly felt. I wrote something that couldn't be misconstrued, misinterpreted, or misread in any way. And you responded. Wanted me to change my name. Sounded happy to be rid of me. We divorced. Good riddance.
"It's the hardest thing in the world, being your son."
You crashed your motorcycle, spent a few days in the hospital. You bought a houseboat, so I heard. Moved to the Mississippi River in a house with no electricity. Live on a boat. Mostly. Pirate dad. And now I fight for my brother's time, coveting the hours he's in town, counting the days we have left before he escapes West.
So forgive me for not celebrating. For the tenth time.