daddy, don’t go.
Daddy, Don’t Go.
DADDY, Don’t Go.
DADDY, DON’T GO.
DADDY, DON’T GO!
DADDY DON’T GO!
DADDY DON’T GO! DADDY DON’T GO! DADDY DON’T GO DADDY DON’T GO DADDYDON’TGODADDYDADDYDON’TGO!
His words rang out – first with a whisper, a small plea. Maybe that’s all that would be needed to stop this. It’s Sunday. It’s 6:00pm. He just spent the weekend with his Father (though he’s only ever known him as “Daddy” for three years now).
It became increasingly clear that a simple plea was not going to work. Daddy was leaving. The volume increased, the speed increased, the intensity increased, his little voice became more panicked. It’s happening again and he didn’t want it to. He never does.
For Daddy, it’s the lowest point of every two week block of time. The tears stream as he walks away, battered and beaten and crushed by the words that follow behind him. It’s a reality of life these days, but understanding that it is reality does not help Dad accept it, not even a little bit. Reality makes him hurt in ways he didn’t know existed, makes him feel anger and sadness at things he really cannot even put his finger on. For anyone within ear shot at Dad’s departure, it’s absolutely gut wrenching to hear.
I am never within ear shot, but I hear it anyway. I hear it over and over again, for as many divorce and custody cases as I have, for Mothers and Fathers and Grandmother and Grandfathers. It weighs on me. It burdens me. It drives me and motivates me.
I hear you, son.