He yelled as loud as he ever had, ‘Your family? Really? I hate your family. Pray for us? Like we are some poor people on the streets? Why would you tell them something is wrong? I could kick every one of their asses.’ He proceed to yell for some time about all the reasons he didn’t want or need help, all the while looking back and forth to the windows—scanning the street.
I felt defeated and alone. Soon the kids were back downstairs and watching a tv show on the couch. Emmett sat down by them and whispered loudly out to me, ‘See… look at me, I am a good dad!’ My heart hurt as I longed for my kids to see the dad he used to be. The man who was my best friend and loved my family, driving around three states every school break just to spend time with them. I missed the dad that used to throw them on his shoulders and take us on adventures. The dad who cared less about what he was wearing, and more about the memories we made. The dad who had no money in his bank account, but had so much excitement and love in his heart. I missed us—all seven of us. Even the kids had become shells the more distant he became.
