The Sins of The Father
A Vignette
The man stared at the boy, who was sprawled on the foldout sofa and slumbering with the grace born of innocence. It was his first night away from his mother, and all things considered, he was handling the whole ordeal beautifully. It helped to cushion the emotional fallout, seeing the boy carry on in his trademark spirit of affectionate good humor.
The man had heard it said that when it occurs in the early years of a child’s development, before conscious remembrance, that they’d be none the wiser. As far as the boy would remember, it was never not so.
He snickered as he titled back the can of Narragansett lager. The whole theory was wishful thinking — or to be blunt, intellectual masturbation performed by parents and money grubbing therapists looking for absolution from their dysfunction. Children, close to Nature as they are before being sent into the meat grinder of society, feel deeply. Nothing escapes their subconscious radar, and whether they verbalize it or not they know the truth.
Try as he had to tell himself otherwise the man knew that the boy knew, and would always know. There was no way around it — trauma will make its mark on your children in one way, shape, or form, and the harder parents deny it, the worse the impact will be. As hard as it was, he knew that it was the better alternative than what he’d seen.
