I wasn’t going to write a post on Father’s Day. I had nothing to say.
My own Dad died when I was twenty-one. That was a long time ago.
My husband isn’t a father to our daughters. Not at all.
So why am I writing today?
Last night, my younger daughter was in tears because of him.
We have about four and half acres of land, most of which is trees. Our own little forest. Both of my daughters love this little forest.
Last night, my younger daughter was telling me about the last time she walked through our forest. She found the carcasses of raccoons that he had simply thrown in the path. She found the stumps of the trees he had cut down. She loves trees. She loves trees so much. She said she would never go back into this forest because he had desecrated it. And she was crying.
I feel that way, too, when I go out into this little forest. I see what he has done there and it makes me sad, too. The animal carcasses. The remants of the cut-down trees. The ruts of the tractor tires and the destruction from pulling out the logs. It’s a mess, an ugly mess, just like the mess he makes of relationships. He leaves wounds and scars and goes merrily on his way.