A Father’s Failure
“Fathers, do not embitter your children, or they will become discouraged.” —Colossians 3:21
Eighteen years of silence followed. Not a phone call, not a birthday, not a photograph on a refrigerator.
Mr. Arnold, baffled by my father’s abrupt departure, pulled me aside after football practice one day to ask what had happened. When I explained the addiction, the years of anger, and the final altercation, his expression shifted to shock and sadness. He admitted he had never seen signs of my father’s struggles—they hadn’t impacted his work.
He was dismayed by my father’s actions, particularly his decision to leave me behind. “You deserved better, Wyatt. A father’s job is to protect his children, not abandon them,” he said, his frustration evident. His deep concern and quiet anger were not directed at me but at the situation.
When I shared the details of the fight, his disappointment deepened. He reassured me, “None of this is your fault—your father’s addiction and choices are on him, not you.” His words were firm yet kind, a balm to my guilt and a reminder of the respect and care I had longed for from my own father.
It was the kindest thing anybody said to me that year. It came from a man who had every reason to be finished with my family, and it came at the edge of a practice field, from somebody else’s father.
Choosing to stay, I planted roots with Aunt Lucinda and Uncle Alvin. They welcomed me as one of their own, their home humming with a kind of organized chaos only Uncle Alvin could orchestrate. Their warmth became a refuge for my frayed soul. The Milford house was alive, bustling with energy thanks to their four kids—my rambunctious cousins: Curtis, Charles, and Oscar, and their bright and determined sister, Eva.
It was loud from six in the morning. Nobody in that house flinched when a door shut. I did, for about a month, and then less, and then only when I was tired.
Life with Aunt Lucinda and Uncle Alvin was vastly different from anything I had known, yet it was exactly what I needed. For the first time in months, I could finally breathe, surrounded by a family who loved me unconditionally—free from anger, judgment, or tension. But even under Uncle Alvin’s steady, watchful eye, the shadow of a bottle lingered in the periphery, a silent reminder of struggles not so easily banished. It was here, in this fragile refuge, that I began to rebuild—not just my life, but myself.