The Family Man
1.
As he stood there staring out into the abyss, he realised what being in a family had cost him. He realised that he had never really wanted this, the family man. He saw himself as a self-imposed philosopher, ready to question anything – including himself. But the sound of his young son crying brought him back to reality.
Children are what make a home, thought the family man as he made his way from the kitchen to the child’s bedroom to soothe his cry. If it wasn’t for his child he probably wouldn’t be here. As the infant snuggled into his father’s arms, he remembered all the things that made him smile, all the things that made family worthwhile – yet all the negative emotion and empty thoughts came seeping back in, suffocating the happiness within his mind. He pulled the child a little closer to him, not wanting to ever let him go.
This is where he belonged, the family man. He belonged in this house with this family. Yet for some reason he didn’t feel worthy enough, as if some god had something else planned for him. Keeping his own council is how he realised this. By realising this he knew that he one day he had to let go. To find his true identity, he had to let go of the thing he cherished the most. His family.
The family man needed to find himself. He felt an emptiness, as if there had been something missing in his life. It was unfair for his family to have to coexist with a man such as himself. He belonged to this family, yet he could not identify himself as a “family man”. But this family man knew, to truly be content he must sacrifice the one thing in his life that he was content with; his family. He had to pay the price of fulfillment.
It was a Thursday. Walking to the woodshed, he realised how beautiful this world really was, realised how beautiful his son was, how beautiful he could not be. He should feel like he belonged with this family, like he belonged in this house; yet for some reason he did not. The hinges from the door squealed in protest as he heaved open the door, the aroma of wet wood assailing his nostrils as he entered. As he chopped the wood to bring it into the fireplace he caught a glimpse of the hunting rifle glimmering in the dull light of the shed. An idea sparked in his mind, something that had been lurking in the dark, out of sight in the cold recesses of his subconscious mind. This can be the only way, thought the family man.
By Friday the plan was set. He had to leave, for he was not what they all thought him to be, he was nothing more than a loving father and that too, was a stretch. All he ever cared about was what would happen to his son. Though part of him knew he couldn’t just leave him, he had made his decision. He had to go. He would never be happy and he could no longer sacrifice his happiness. Again, the sound of the boy’s cries reminded him of the beauty of this world. It made him want to leave it even more. “How could I identify with something so alien?” thought the family man. He took his son in his strong arms and they sat together in front of the warm fire and the family man said his last goodbye.
Saturday, he was dead in his own woodshed, tucked away from the rest of the family and the rest of the world. He didn’t want his son to see him this way, nor remember his this way; he wanted his son to remember him the way he wanted to be seen, as a family man. As he stared shaking, down the cold unforgiving barrel of the rifle, he gripped ever tighter the photograph in his hand.
***
For ten years I have been told stories about my father, I have been told that he was a good man, a family man. I was told to remember him that way because that is what he would have wanted. But I cannot help thinking what the reason was for him to leave. Why would he go? I gripped tighter on the photo in my hand, an old photo of me as a baby, etched with crimson stains. I was told he was holding this when it happened. I’m not really sure why Mum kept it all these years, but every now and then I look at it and think of him. When I look at it, I get an empty feeling, as if there is something missing within me. It might be because of my father. It might be because I’m just like him.
Children are what make a home, thought the family man as he made his way from the kitchen to the child’s bedroom to soothe his cry. If it wasn’t for his child he probably wouldn’t be here. As the infant snuggled into his father’s arms, he remembered all the things that made him smile, all the things that made family worthwhile – yet all the negative emotion and empty thoughts came seeping back in, suffocating the happiness within his mind. He pulled the child a little closer to him, not wanting to ever let him go.
This is where he belonged, the family man. He belonged in this house with this family. Yet for some reason he didn’t feel worthy enough, as if some god had something else planned for him. Keeping his own council is how he realised this. By realising this he knew that he one day he had to let go. To find his true identity, he had to let go of the thing he cherished the most. His family.
The family man needed to find himself. He felt an emptiness, as if there had been something missing in his life. It was unfair for his family to have to coexist with a man such as himself. He belonged to this family, yet he could not identify himself as a “family man”. But this family man knew, to truly be content he must sacrifice the one thing in his life that he was content with; his family. He had to pay the price of fulfillment.
It was a Thursday. Walking to the woodshed, he realised how beautiful this world really was, realised how beautiful his son was, how beautiful he could not be. He should feel like he belonged with this family, like he belonged in this house; yet for some reason he did not. The hinges from the door squealed in protest as he heaved open the door, the aroma of wet wood assailing his nostrils as he entered. As he chopped the wood to bring it into the fireplace he caught a glimpse of the hunting rifle glimmering in the dull light of the shed. An idea sparked in his mind, something that had been lurking in the dark, out of sight in the cold recesses of his subconscious mind. This can be the only way, thought the family man.
By Friday the plan was set. He had to leave, for he was not what they all thought him to be, he was nothing more than a loving father and that too, was a stretch. All he ever cared about was what would happen to his son. Though part of him knew he couldn’t just leave him, he had made his decision. He had to go. He would never be happy and he could no longer sacrifice his happiness. Again, the sound of the boy’s cries reminded him of the beauty of this world. It made him want to leave it even more. “How could I identify with something so alien?” thought the family man. He took his son in his strong arms and they sat together in front of the warm fire and the family man said his last goodbye.
Saturday, he was dead in his own woodshed, tucked away from the rest of the family and the rest of the world. He didn’t want his son to see him this way, nor remember his this way; he wanted his son to remember him the way he wanted to be seen, as a family man. As he stared shaking, down the cold unforgiving barrel of the rifle, he gripped ever tighter the photograph in his hand.
***
For ten years I have been told stories about my father, I have been told that he was a good man, a family man. I was told to remember him that way because that is what he would have wanted. But I cannot help thinking what the reason was for him to leave. Why would he go? I gripped tighter on the photo in my hand, an old photo of me as a baby, etched with crimson stains. I was told he was holding this when it happened. I’m not really sure why Mum kept it all these years, but every now and then I look at it and think of him. When I look at it, I get an empty feeling, as if there is something missing within me. It might be because of my father. It might be because I’m just like him.