My father committed suicide when I was two, unfortnately I found him dead.
My mother, an immigrant, raised my sister, my brother and I alone (with the help of the community we lived in and Social Security) until I was six, when she married an abusive asshole who liked to beat her and us.
Tonight my son, ten, asked if he could take me to McDonalds for dinner on Father's Day. He had thirteen dollars he'd somehow saved from his birthday two weeks ago...
Tonight I had the best meal I've ever had and I'm a vegan.
I'm going to cry for years thinking about the joy in my son's eyes when I said I would love McDonalds, and when he paid for his Dad's supper. My supper.
Nothing means more to me than the love that little boy has for HIS Dad. Father's Day?
It's a wonderful thing.
(Posted by sixteenwords.)
The blog post itself is also well worth reading, if a little less uplifting.
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