I know that I have been a disappointment to many people in my life. My parents, my first wife, maybe even my second wife, probably my children. In their treatment of me, it is obvious that they feel no need to hide their disappointment.
But, call me crazy, I think that I was a good son, at least until their ridiculous mistreatment of me drove me into a shell. I think that I was a pretty good husband to my first wife. I was at least as good a spouse as she was. She was no saint, and she could be a real pain in the ass. But I didn't complain. She gave me a family, and I loved them, I loved them all. In the end, after forty years, she kicked me out like a filthy, biting dog. I think that I've been a great husband to my second wife, but people often have unreasonable expectations. Think of poor Lord Jim. He doesn't survive his book by Joseph Conrad.
My sons, I have no idea what their complaints are. It's a mystery to me. What did I do to them? We, they, have a thousand photographs. We did things; we went places; we took nice vacations; we were all smiling! Isn't it cruel to deny a man any contact at all with his two granddaughters? I know parents who failed miserably in the roll but whose children lack the gall to exclude them from their grandchildren's lives.
I complain, as usual. Maybe that's the point. I never deserved any of it, and shutting the door on me is the only proper response.
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