An Apology to My Three-Year-Old Son

Words of a man learning to be a father

Photo by Zan on Unsplash

First I became angry; then I became angry for being angry. In both cases, I should have held my anger. But the realisation came much later. In those moments, as I faced my son, I was blind to anything but the hot white anger coursing in my body.

There he was, standing on one of the dining table chairs, defiance shining in his eyes, a mock grin pasted on his face. Behind him, red tulips were scattered on the dining table. More fallen on the floor — dark red blots against the glittering debris of the shattered vase.

“Apologize,” I commanded. But his response was the same, “I will break everything.”

Things happened quickly after that. A quick lunge forward, and he was in my arms. Holding him, I ascended the stairs and stormed into his room. Once inside, I bolted the door, put him on the bed and stood next to him.

In his prison, he limped over me. “No, papa, I want to go downstairs, please,” he cried.

But I stood still like a pillar of stone, unmoving. I knew he hated being in his room as a punishment. It was here that his fierce will broke, that made him apologise, say sorry, which otherwise he would never say.