Broken Bonds
I abandoned my three-year-old son a few weeks before Christmas. Now a teenager, Tristan was the first person I saw upon entering the funeral parlor. He’s so grown up, so tall. I can still hear my departing words to him: “Daddy loves you, buddy. So much. I need to figure out myself. I’ll make you proud of our name.” It’s been thirteen years since we were last in the same room, and I haven’t lived up to that promise.
My joy is short-lived when I hear Tristan refer to his stepfather as ‘my dad’ in the eulogy. My hands curled into fists as I glared at the large portrait of Lt. Colonel Ezra Almond at the front of the room. I hope the heart attack killed him slowly. Painfully.
A commanding officer should look out for their men, but instead, Almond stabbed me in the back. Then stole my wife and child.