Dear Son...We Kinda Need to Talk

Dear son,

Twenty-two years ago, your mother gave birth to you. I love you more than life itself, which makes this letter particularly painful to write, because it is, in essence, an apology. According to your mother, you could do no wrong if you tried. Then again, what would you expect from the mother of a brat?

Yes, a brat. Let’s not dance around it. I know it, you know it, and deep down, I suspect even your mother knows it when she is not busy funding it.

Now, credit where it is due. You made us proud. You excelled in school, in maths, in sports. “Go Heat,” as you like to shout, as if you personally negotiated their contracts. You got married, and somehow, against all odds, you chose well. A pediatric doctor. A saint, really. I still don’t know how you pulled that off.

Then came the news. A baby.

Your mother and I were speechless. Proud, even. Slightly concerned, but proud. Because naturally, one question presented itself. Is the child also going to be a brat? Because if so, I would like to formally object. One of you is already a long-term investment.

Let me ask you something. Do you know what people do for a living? They work. They wake up, go somewhere they do not particularly enjoy, smile at people they do not especially like, and get paid just enough to return the next day. Some even get promoted. You know, rewards for effort. A wild concept.

You, however, have managed to bypass this entire system. An impressive feat, really. A kind of social loophole. Why work when your mother exists?

And that is where I failed.

You did what made sense to you. You followed the path of least resistance, which, in this case, was paved with your mother’s credit card. Efficient, if nothing else. Sustainable? Not exactly. That part was my responsibility. That part was where I should have stepped in.

Instead, I watched. I nodded. I financed. I became an unwilling investor in a lifestyle with no exit strategy.

And now here we are.

A wife. A baby on the way. And you standing at the edge of reality, still wondering when the trees will produce more money.

Allow me to clarify something. Those are not trees. Those are debts. They grow quietly, they spread aggressively, and eventually, they come looking for the person who planted them.

Which brings us to the apology.

I am sorry.

I am sorry I did not stop you when it mattered. I am sorry I mistook comfort for love and indulgence for support. I am sorry I raised a man who believes life is something that simply… provides.

Every father dreams of a son he can brag about at dinner. A son who makes him proud in ways that are simple to explain. Instead, I get heart palpitations and financial flashbacks.

You have made choices without us for years. Scholarships ignored. Opportunities dismissed. Entire futures reshaped because of a neighbourhood, a team, or a passing preference. Meanwhile, I stood there, quietly converting my savings into your decisions.

So yes, I am sorry.

Not for loving you. That part was inevitable.

I am sorry for how I loved you.

Because now, we are all in this together. You, me, your mother floating comfortably above it all, and soon, another innocent participant will be entering the experiment.

So yes… I’m sorry.

Not to you.

To your child.

Because in about twenty-two years, I fully expect to receive this exact same letter… word for word.

But I want it on better paper.

Love,

Dad