Sins of the Father

Nothing looked the same, yet somehow, everything was just as he remembered.

Rob had not been down the path since he was thirteen and, truth be told, if it had not been for the letter, he might never have walked it again.

To his left and right were oaks and poplars, the same ones that had guarded the trail some twenty years earlier. The trees, like him, were a little older and a little worse for wear—but their branches, like arms, still surrounded him, making him feel slightly claustrophobic.

There was nothing he could do about the narrowness of the path, but he could loosen his tie. With a tug or two, he felt cooler air make its way down his shirt. It didn’t make his breathing any easier, though. Painful memories have a way of constricting the throat, and loosening their grip would be far more complicated.

That night was good, or at least it was supposed to be, but, as usual, the good days were the ones that he had ended up ruining. He should have left Rob alone on those special days long ago, but he never did. Birthdays, holidays, and family gatherings were both to be looked forward to and dreaded—because of him.

Accepting an award for community service, Rob had spent a pleasant evening with his wife and son, Robbie. Rob could always be counted on to help those in need, no matter the time or personal cost. He supported the PTA, served meals at the local soup kitchen, and even coached Robbie’s Little League team. Rob was the envy of all who knew him—only no one really knew him. That was the reason why he had agreed to meet him one last time.

The letter Rob received had been handwritten and mailed the old-fashioned way, a flag-covered stamp in the upper right-hand corner with the postmark smeared slightly on top. The other corner of the envelope showed his name: Robert Watkins. The return address was the state penitentiary. Rob didn’t need all that information; he’d recognize his handwriting anywhere. The scrawl was a little less frantic than he remembered, but that’s because inmates can’t get “falling down” drunk in prison.

The letter was as unexpected as it was unwanted. Rob threw it away several times, but for reasons unknown, each time he would retrieve it from the waste basket. Finally, unable to contain his curiosity, Rob tore open the envelope and retrieved its contents.

Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead, and his hands shook as he unfolded the correspondence. All at once, his heart started to race, and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. A long-forgotten yet familiar queasiness welled up in his stomach. Against his better judgment and with a glass of Jack Daniels in hand, Rob read the letter silently. Tears welled as Rob's eyes struggled to focus on words like unimaginable and unspeakable and unforgivable.

There were no excuses or explanations or mentions of the particulars. Rob had been both relieved and upset about that last part. He didn’t want to relive the trauma, but he deserved acknowledgement. The letter informed Rob of his pending release and suggested a reunion. There were only veiled references to his childhood abuse.

Rob quickly realized that vague apologies don’t soothe the wounds of specific sins. Most offensive was the proposed location for the meeting. The letter referenced their Special Place—a fishing hole no one knew about but Rob and him. It had been home to the few genuinely good memories Rob had with his dad, Robert, Sr., but even those memories had been tarnished by the abuse that scarred the years before his thirteenth birthday.

Walking the footpath, each step closer to his destination, Rob felt himself transported back in time. He remembered his thoughts from that awful day vividly. Surely his dad wouldn’t ruin this place, too. His father couldn’t force himself on him. Not here.

It was the last time his father would touch him.

Everyone told Rob he should be proud. He had called 911, articulating for the first time the shame he had hidden in the darkest recesses of his soul. He had sat confidently in the witness stand and fully recounted the years of abuse he had suffered at the hands of the man who sat quietly at the table in front of him. He looked smaller that day, less menacing, but Rob still saw it in his eyes, the soul of a monster.

Truth be told, Rob wasn’t proud; he wasn't even relieved. In actuality, he was ashamed. Ashamed he had been a victim. Ashamed that everyone now knew his secret. Ashamed of sending his father to prison. That thought, once again, produced an uncomfortable chuckle. He had stolen Rob’s innocence, yet Rob had spent the last two decades dealing with the weight of unwarranted guilt.

The abuse had affected every relationship in his life. It left him confused about his sexuality and his culpability. Rob became so guarded that no one truly knew him—not his coworkers, not his friends, not even his wife.

He had one last chance to put the past behind him, and that chance lay at the end of a path, next to a fishing hole, far from any other eyes or ears.

All journeys have destinations. For Rob, this particular journey led Rob to both a place and an opportunity. As Rob took the first few steps out of the tree-lined path into the opening that overlooked the pond, moonlight and memories washed over him in equal portions. For a moment, Rob actually felt at peace—but for just a moment. Rob was no longer alone. To his left, on a fallen tree, sat the author of the letter. Him.

“I wasn’t sure you would come,” his father said softly, breaking the silence. “Part of me hoped you wouldn’t.”

There was so much Rob wanted to say. He wanted to scream at the top of his lungs: I hate you! He wanted to grab this man—who had ruined his entire life, who had defiled his childhood, who had taken any hope of normalcy—and shake him until he understood.

“You wanted to talk, so talk,” was all Rob managed to say.

In that moment, Rob tried valiantly to sound controlled, strong, even disinterested. In his mind, however, he was a little boy again, trying to make sense of the senseless. The reality of having a father taking advantage of him—his body, his mind, his soul—was still devastating.

“I’m not here to ask for forgiveness,” his dad began. “I don’t deserve it.”

“You’re damn fucking right you don’t, you coward,” Rob interrupted, finding the voice he had been searching for. “You destroyed me! You get that, right? You fucking raped me, over and over. You made me a…” Rob’s voice trailed off.

In the matter of a single moment, a time frame so short it almost didn’t exist, Rob felt who he really was for the first time in over twenty years.

“I loved you, you goddamn bastard. You were my first best friend.”

“I know, but . . .”

“Shut up. I’m not finished,” Rob said, pointing a finger directly at him. “All those years, I kept quiet. I defended you. I kept your secret.” Rob paused to swallow hard, blinking back hot tears. “I convinced myself it was my fault. How do you like that? You made me feel guilty. To this day, I still feel ashamed.”

Without warning, Rob began to sob, articulating the worst part. “When all my friends at college were bragging about their first time, I knew my first time was with you." Rob's eyes lowered to the ground. "I was eight years old," he whispered, the same age as his own son. "You were supposed to protect me."

Rob’s father paused for what seemed like an eternity in an interminable silence.

“Son, I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I know words can’t fix anything. You have every right to hate me, but the one thing I wanted to do was to look you in the eye and to let you know that I know what I did. It was wrong. You didn’t deserve it. It wasn’t your fault.”

The words were jarring for both their sincerity and contrition. It was undeniably true that his father’s words couldn’t erase the emotional scars. They didn’t come close to wiping the slate clean, but Rob felt disarmed and a little disoriented.

For a moment, both men stared silently at each other in somber reflection.

Finally, Rob regained his voice. “So you said your piece. What now?”

“Now I disappear. The one last gift I can give you is the certainty you’ll never hear from me again. No one knows where I’m going, and, God willing, when I get there, no one will know who I am.”

“So that’s it? You leave and never come back?"

“That’s it.”

“And no one knows where you're going?”

“Not a soul.”

“Who knows you came here tonight?”

“No one. I’m leaving everything and everyone behind.”

“Well, Dad, I'm afraid that’s not good enough." Rob had a grim smile on his face as he pulled the Glock 21 from his pocket and pointed it directly at his father.

“Rob, no.—”

“Goodbye, Dad.”

The report of the gunshot was louder than Rob had expected, but there was no one within miles to hear it, or the splash the body made as it fell into the water. Rob didn’t even wipe his fingerprints off the gun before he threw it in the pond.

It turned out Rob had a really great night after all—his best night ever, he thought to himself as he headed back down the path and into the woods.

To celebrate that great night, of all nights, Rob knew he should leave his son, Robbie, alone in his bed.

He knew he should, but he also knew he wouldn’t.