“Hope deferred makes the heart sick…” Proverbs 13:12
From a very young age, my second son, Brett, was absolutely charming. He had an infectious smile that could light up a room, bright, dancing eyes, and a playful, charming, and sensitive disposition. That’s the image of Brett I prefer to remember.
But as the years went by and my marriage began to crumble under the weight of abuse, neglect, and drug and alcohol abuse, I saw my happy, fun-loving Brett begin to withdraw. The slow progression over time transformed Brett from his cheerful, fun-loving self into a sullen, introverted boy. Brett struggled in school, spent long hours alone in his room, comforted himself with junk food, or escaped the stress of our home lives by immersing himself in movies and video games.
I must shamefully admit that I was too preoccupied with survival, believing that my prayers and faithfulness would ultimately restore our family, to see what was happening around me. My life revolved around a hostile and unpredictable husband while I continued to do what I was told to do. I continually prayed for the father of our children and believed that I alone could cobble together a sense of normalcy in our home despite my husband’s endless demands and his terrifying outbursts. I became convinced that he could protect our children from what was really going on in our home.
How wrong I was. Our family’s rapid descent into chaos began when Brett was about 6 years old. And in the years that followed, my sweet Brett lived in a silent and separate world, cruelly held captive in a personal prison defined by loneliness and fear. For the most part he kept to himself, trying to live under the radar, trusting no one for fear of being ridiculed for his feelings and hiding from the risk of further rejection.
After our separation when Brett was 9 years old, Brett saw his father suddenly assume a new role, that of the father of Disneyland, the weekend adult playmate. And Brett believed that now he could have the relationship with his father that he had always dreamed possible. Although Brett’s father would drop anything to spend time with Brett’s older brother, Kyle (the sure favorite among the four brothers), when it was Brett’s turn to spend a day or weekend with his father, punctuality and his father’s interest seemed to waver. .
On days when his father was scheduled to pick him up, Brett would sit stoically at the front bedroom window, eager to see his father’s car pull into the driveway. But very often his father was late or did not show up at all. The minutes ticked by slowly, and sometimes it was an hour or more past the agreed time before the phone rang. On a few occasions, Brett’s father would call and say that he would be late, and Brett would kindly agree to wait. But then his dad might call back long after the new scheduled time and say he wasn’t going to make it after all. He watched Brett’s face drop at the news, and he wanted to pick up the phone and let this man have it.
Sometimes her father didn’t show up or call. And yet, with each new opportunity to spend time with his father, Brett returned to the window once more, eagerly waiting, trusting, believing. He would see him there, and as the minutes or hours ticked by, he knew he was watching his heart break, and mine break along with his.
“Brett, you don’t have to do this,” I’d tell him. “How about I call your dad and tell him you’ve made other plans? You and I can go out together,” she offered. But Brett’s hope was unshakeable. “No, Mom,” he would say, “It’s coming. I know it’s coming.”
Yet time and time again, his father did not come. While he was cleaning, doing laundry, and cooking, he stopped by to see Brett in his lonely place, totally committed to the possibility of meaningful father-son time. And my soul wavered between two consuming emotions: overwhelming sadness and burning anger at the man who would keep his young son waiting at the window, the son who was starving for even the smallest measure of his attention and affection just to stay. looking out. our lonely street again and again.
On the occasions when his father came, Brett would jump from his place at the window and run to the door, a hopeful light in his eyes. She knew he believed that maybe this would be the day his father would come to him. Maybe this day they would connect and laugh and talk and be close. Their time together would be everything it was meant to be, everything he ever wanted. His time would be special, it would be memorable, it would be perfect.
That day never came.
Even when they spent time together, Brett’s father didn’t look for ways to connect with him or ask about his life or interests. And often Brett would come home, and the look he wore was almost always one of despondency or disappointment.
One particular day, I went upstairs to my room to find Brett sitting on his drum stool in front of the sliding glass door that opened onto our street, waiting as he had so many times before. When I walked in, the agonized look on his face stopped me in my tracks. It was a look that defied words: the look of utter despair in the eyes of an 11-year-old boy, the look of the son of a father who had given up all hope, had finally given up. “What happen dear?” Asked. His hazel eyes met mine from across the room, and when tears began to roll down his cheeks, the words were spoken so softly and naturally that I felt sick.
“Daddy doesn’t love me,” she almost whispered. And with that heartbreaking expression, I quickly walked over to him and held his small body against mine. Brett clung to me and wept and poured out all the anguish he had been carrying alone, while my heart broke for my little boy who should never have known such pain. All the patience and hope and forgiveness he had offered, the confident certainty that one day he would find all the love and acceptance he longed to receive from his father crumbled under the weight of years of unimaginable rejection.
Not long after Brett’s father stopped inviting him to spend time with him altogether.
Even these ten years later, Brett’s wounds remain. A couple of years ago, during an open discussion with his brother and sisters about his collective history, Brett revealed to his brother and sisters that his heart still aches from the love and acceptance they have shared with him. he never received from his father. They reminded him how patiently he used to wait at the window, and he replied how he felt, even all these years later, he is still waiting there, waiting at the window, wondering if his father will ever miss him, come on. for him.
This mother’s heart breaks for her son, and I carry a huge load of guilt for her pain. They encouraged me to do whatever it took to keep my family “whole.” But, we were not complete. We were broken and battered and lived in a house bursting at the seams with daily turmoil and fear. My once happy and outgoing son suffered for it and is still reeling from my foolish misunderstanding. So yeah, I blame myself.
I know that God can heal Brett, and I pray that God will use even those very dark memories in his life, and mine, to reach out to others, to give him a heart of compassion for those in similarly painful and lonely situations. And I pray that Brett becomes the kind of father that he always wanted.
But I can tell you, knowing what I know now and seeing the collective magnitude of pain my children endured, if I had to do it over again, I would have left that toxic and abusive environment long before I did to give Brett – and Kyle, Charla and Amberly, something that is now too late to give them, a happy childhood. But I will never be able to pay that debt; I can never get it right.
There are those who tell us that children are resilient, that they possess some unique ability to overcome that kind of pain. I think it’s a feeling meant to free us from the burden of acknowledging how deeply they’ve been hurt. I also think that if I had known then what I know now, I would have left with my children much sooner. I would have worked overtime to empower them to recognize what is right and true, to instill in them a sense of their own worth from an early age, and would have gone to great lengths to ensure that their home was a place where they would expect to find the greatest measure of stability, security and acceptance that he could offer them.
Everyone told me that as long as he didn’t hit me, I had to stay.
They were wrong.
Don’t listen to those people. If you’re in an abusive environment, you don’t have to stay. And you shouldn’t.
I wouldn’t wish this depth of regret on anyone.
cindy burrel
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