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Father Forgets by W

Father realizes he has been too harsh and critical of his young son. He scolded the boy that morning for minor issues like how he dried his face and cleaned his shoes. At breakfast, he nitpicked the boy's behavior and manners. Later, he humiliated the boy in front of his friends. The boy then came to the father timidly, and embraced him with affection despite the neglect. The father realizes he expected too much of the boy and was measuring him against adult standards, when he is still a child. The father vows to be more understanding and patient with the boy from now on.

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Elaine Kelly
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212 views1 page

Father Forgets by W

Father realizes he has been too harsh and critical of his young son. He scolded the boy that morning for minor issues like how he dried his face and cleaned his shoes. At breakfast, he nitpicked the boy's behavior and manners. Later, he humiliated the boy in front of his friends. The boy then came to the father timidly, and embraced him with affection despite the neglect. The father realizes he expected too much of the boy and was measuring him against adult standards, when he is still a child. The father vows to be more understanding and patient with the boy from now on.

Uploaded by

Elaine Kelly
Copyright
© © All Rights Reserved
We take content rights seriously. If you suspect this is your content, claim it here.
Available Formats
Download as DOCX, PDF, TXT or read online on Scribd
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"Father Forgets by W.

Livingston Larned" ;

Listen, Son, I am saying this as you lie asleep, one little hand crumpled under your
cheek and blonde curls sticky over your wet forehead.
I have broken into your room alone. Just a few minutes ago, as I sat reading my paper
in the library, a stifling wave of remorse swept over me. Guilty, I came to your
bedside.
There are things which I am thinking, son; I had been cross to you. I scolded you as
you were dressing for school because you gave your face a mere dab with the towel. I
took you to task for not cleaning your shoes. I called out angrily when you threw some
of your things on the floor.
At breakfast, I found fault, too. You spilt things. You gulped down your food. You put
your elbows on the table. You spread butter too thick on your bread. And as you
started off to play and I made for my train, you turned and waved a hand and called,
"Goodbye, Daddy!" and I frowned, and said in reply, "Hold your shoulders back!"
Then it began all over again in the late afternoon. As I came Up the road, I spied you,
down on your knees, playing marbles. There were holes in your stockings. I humiliated
you before your friends by marching you ahead of me to the house. Stockings were
expensive - and if you had to buy them you would be more careful! Imagine that, son,
from a father!
Do you remember, later, when I was reading in the library, how you came in timidly,
with a sort of hurt look in your eyes? When I glanced up over my paper, impatient at
the interruption, you hesitated at the door. "What is it you want?" I snapped.
You said nothing, but ran across in one tempestuous plunge, and threw your arms
around my neck and kissed me, and your small arms tightened with an affection that
God had set blooming in your heart and which even neglect could not wither. And then
you were gone, pattering up the stairs.
Well, son, it was shortly afterwards that my paper slipped from my hands and a
terrible sickening fear came over me. What has habit been doing to me? The habit of
finding fault, of reprimanding - this was my reward to you for being a boy. It was not
that I did not love you; it was that I expected too much of youth. I was measuring you
by the yardstick of my own years.
And there was so much that was good and fine and true in your character. The little
heart of you was as big as the dawn itself over the wide hills. This was shown by your
spontaneous impulse to rush in and kiss me good night.
Nothing else matters tonight, son. I have come to your bedside in the darkness, and I
have knelt there, ashamed!
It is a feeble atonement; I know you would not understand these things if I told them to
you during your waking hours. But tomorrow I will be a real daddy! I will chum with
you, and suffer when you suffer, and laugh when you laugh. I will bite my tongue
when impatient words come. I will keep saying as if it were a ritual:
"He is nothing but a boy -- a little boy!"
I am afraid I have visualised you as a man. Yet as I see you now, son, crumpled and
weary in your bed, I see that you are still a baby.
Yesterday you were in your mother's arms, your head on her shoulder. I have asked
too much, too much." - W. Livingston Larned

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