The Same Mistakes

The scene wasn’t an unusual one for the household, and it was hard to tell who was more tired of it. George, the father, didn’t show that this was becoming tedious. He was the man of the house and ever since his wife had left he hadn’t allowed himself to show any feeling. He couldn’t show any feeling, because it was weak, and his own father had reacted the same way when George’s mother had left. George knew that when history repeated itself, he had to do his father proud, even if they no longer spoke, even if he didn’t know that his daughter-in-law was taking action so she would no longer be his daughter-in-law. So George stood there, his eyes hard, glaring down at the fifteen-year-old boy he called his son.

Eduardo, the son and the only child of the family, was the one who was showing emotion. He was like his mother and it annoyed George no-end. Eduardo wore his heart on his sleeve and right now his eyes were glistening with tears as he forced himself to look up into his father’s angry eyes, hating himself for being the one to put the anger there and hating his father for never being anything else when it came to him. His fists were clenched beside him, the guitar case strapped over his shoulder, and he was trying his hardest not to break down, not to cry. He had to stay strong.

"When are you going to stop with this nonsense?" George demanded, and he saw the hurt flinch through Eduardo’s eyes as the words left his mouth. There was a strange pain in his chest as he watched his son staring up at him, his mother’s deer-like eyes reflecting into his own, but he remembered the teaching of his own father. Emotion was for girls, not men, and if Eduardo couldn’t take it, he simply needed to "man up", as the saying had gone in George’s childhood.

"When are you going to stop calling it nonsense?" Eduardo asked, and his voice was soft in contrast to his father’s. If he were honest he didn’t know why he was arguing, because the same thing would happen. The same thing happened all the time when this row came about.

"What good does it do?" George snapped. "You’re sitting up in your room at all hours of the day playing that stupid instrument and what is it doing? You don’t bring anything to the house – you’re fifteen years old, you should be looking for a job and thinking about college, not wasting your time with this slushy, arty muck you love so much."

"I do it because it makes me happy, all right?" Eduardo shot back, and there was passion in his voice as he defended his hobby. "I do it because I’m good at it. Not that you’d know, because you never take any time to listen to me."

"Why would I?" George demanded. "You should be out with friends, playing football or ... or doing something that a normal boy your age would be doing. Why don’t you have a girlfriend yet? Do you even notice boobs, or what? God, you’re not gay, are you? Because that would make a lot of sense, this whole emotional personality you have, and all this guitar playing and drawing and not having a girlfriend and –"

"God, Dad, just shut up," Eduardo suddenly snapped, and he glared up at the taller man. "I’m not gay. Even if I was it wouldn’t matter – to you it would just be another damn disappointment. You’re always telling me how I’m such a disappointment anyway, what would being gay matter? Hell, I could secretly be a cross-dresser and you’d be just as disappointed as when I got a B instead of an A. You don’t care; you don’t give a shit what I do. It doesn’t matter to you who I am because you’re too transfixed with what you want me to be. I’m not you, Dad, and I’m not Granddad either. When will you stop bitching about him and realize that you’re doing the exact same thing to me?"

George was speechless as Eduardo turned and left the room, managing to hold in his sobs until he was out of earshot. He hated crying, it made him feel weak and pathetic and worthless but then again being convinced his own father didn’t love him made him feel weak and pathetic and worthless too, so he thought he may as well just go for gold on the worthless scale. What did it matter anyway? No matter what he did, his father would still think he was good for nothing, a disappointment, all of the other things Eduardo knew that he thought.

His father was still standing in the living room, his heart hammering unpleasantly in a way that it hadn’t done before. His son’s words were ringing in his head, and he sat down on the couch, burying his head in his hands and taking a shaky breath.

As he closed his eyes, he saw it all so clearly. The young man, around Eduardo’s age, tiptoeing around the house, trying to avoid the stony figure of his father, retreating to his room to lose himself in his books. He was safe there – the fantasy worlds were his sanctuary and the fictional characters his best friends, who held his hand and told him that everything would be OK. They were still there in his dreams, on those nights where his father would find his books and rip the pages from them, scattering them across the wooden floor and telling the young man to keep his head down to earth.

"If you don’t have your head in the clouds you can’t fall, God damn it," he shouted at the boy, and this young man, George, would bite back the tears and wait until his father left the room, and then he would sob as he scooped up all of the shattered books and tried to put them back together, but there was always a page missing or a few without numbers and it was never the same again, and he would throw them away and gradually, gradually, his comfort was destroyed and the characters left his dreams, and he was on his own.

George sighed heavily, trembling softly as he looked around the room, his eyes falling on a photograph of Eduardo as a toddler, his dark hair flopping around his face as he grinned up at the camera, bricks and toys scattered around him. George stood and went to the picture, holding it gently in his hands and looking into his infant son’s wide brown eyes. He had been a beautiful baby, and who was George kidding? He was a beautiful boy now, polite, smart, funny. He had a healthy group of friends, both male and female, he did well at school ... but George couldn’t see that because he was too busy worrying over stupid things like the fact Eduardo wasn’t interested in sports or politics or any of the other things that George’s father had told him was "manly" and "right". No, Eduardo was a musician and George had never heard him, but Eduardo was his son and a part of George knew that if he was passionate about something, he would be good at it.

George remembered to his own childhood, his mother leaving, his father always judging, and he saw it repeating with his own family and he could barely comprehend the crushing shame that was beginning to wash over him. His vision blurred as he looked at the baby Eduardo in the dusty frame, and as he stared at the beautiful baby’s face and heard the soft strumming of a guitar from upstairs, he saw into his future as well. He saw himself, sixteen, constantly toe-to-toe with his father, screaming at him. He saw himself at seventeen, slumming around with friends so he didn’t have to be at home. He saw himself at eighteen, graduating and seeing the empty space where his father should be sitting. No, because he hadn’t graduated with perfect grades his father had been too ashamed, too disappointed, and George still carried the hurt around with him every single day.

But this was where it stopped.

George was halfway up the stairs before he realized what he was doing and paused. He had never done anything like this before in his life, and for the first time in decades he admitted he was scared. However, he looked at the framed photo in his hand, not knowing exactly why he had brought it with him, and then he pushed forward, knocking on Eduardo’s door and for the first time waiting for a reply.

The guitar stopped, and Eduardo’s stony voice reached him.

"What do you want, Dad?"

George took a deep breath, his hand shaky against the door handle.

"Son," he said softly. "I need to talk to you. Please."

The shock registered on Eduardo’s face as he walked to the door and opened it, to see his father standing there, looking totally different to the man he had just been shouting at downstairs. George was holding a baby photo in his hands and his shoulders were sagged, and Eduardo thought he was hallucinating because his father’s eyes definitely looked moist.

"Wha-" he began, but he faltered as his father’s appearance hit him and could only mutely move aside as his father stepped into the room.

"Eduardo," George said softly, taking a deep breath before he could falter and give up, any shy away from what needed to be said. "I’m sorry."

His son’s jaw dropped slightly, and George took his chance to carry on speaking before his son could interrupt his nerve.

"What you said today, what you said to me just then was right," George said softly, looking into his teenage son’s eyes, the same colour as his own but with all the emotions of his mother’s. "I’ve let what my father – what your grandfather – did to me when I was younger get into my head, and I’ve tried to convince myself that it was right, that it was correct, for far too long. I was a coward, Eduardo. Instead of realizing that my father was in the wrong I tried to make myself into his image and as a result I was doing the exact same to you as he did to me, and the thought of it makes me feel sick to my stomach. I’ve been denying to myself all of the things you can do, and all of the things you’ve done, all because my father told me that the things you’ve done weren’t right. They weren’t right for him when it came to me, but I’m not going to go down the same road as him. You were right, son, and I’m so sorry. I know it’s probably fifteen years too late, and I understand if you can’t accept my apology. But, for what it’s worth, I’m sorry, and I just want you to be happy."

George’s voice broke a little then, and his son’s eyes were wet too.

"All I’ve ever wanted was for you to be happy," George whispered, and he smiled slightly and signalled the picture he was still holding in his hand. "From the moment you were placed into my arms I wanted the world for you, and I’m so darn sorry that I’ve been such a coward and haven’t shown it before. I love you, son, and I’m proud of you."

That did it for Eduardo, and he couldn’t hold back the tears because it was the first time he remembered his father telling him he loved him and it was certainly the first time his father had told him he was proud of him. It was all Eduardo had ever wanted and finally hearing it after so many years of false hope and disappointment made him feel light-headed and dizzy. He was aware he was crying – and in front of his father, too – but George only gathered his son into his arms, holding him close and wishing that he had said this years before.

"I love you too, Dad," Eduardo whispered, his face pressed against his father. "I just want to make you proud of me. That’s all I wanted."

"You make me proud every single day," George replied quietly. "I’ve just been stupid not to show it. No more of that, OK, Eduardo? I just want you to do what makes you happy. Within reason, of course. I mean I don’t want you to come home with a bong or anything like that –"

Eduardo laughed then, and George couldn’t remember the last time he had made his son laugh.

"I won’t bring back a bong, Dad," he replied, still laughing softly, and then he looked up at his father and George had never seen him look so alive. "Maybe a few more guitars, though," he winked.

"I can live with that," George smiled, and then he glanced at the worm guitar on the bed that Eduardo had saved for with his own money. "Though, I might want to see what I’m letting myself into first."

Eduardo’s face went from blank to hopeful as he realized what his father was getting at.

"You mean –" he asked, and then he chuckled again. "It’s OK, Dad. You don’t have to ask. I know how terrifying this whole thing must have been for you."

George laughed himself, and shook his head slightly.

"It’s fine," he said. "I would love to hear you play, Eduardo. You’re my son. I know that you’ll be brilliant at anything you put your mind to, and I’m just glad I can finally see that for myself."

The look on Eduardo’s face was one of pure relief and happiness and amazement and George couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt as he realized what he had been doing to his boy, his only child. But, he pushed it to the back of his mind, because he wasn’t going to be like his father. He wasn’t going to use his past mistakes as an excuse to make news ones, and so he sat with his son, and as Eduardo picked up his guitar, George smiled as he realized just how much it suited him.