Father Forgets by W. Livingston Larned

Listen, son; I am saying this as you lie asleep, one little paw crumpled under your cheek y the blond curls sticky wet en your damp forehead. I have stolen into your room alone. Just a few minutes ago, as I sat reading my paper en the library, a stifling wave of remorse swept over me. Guiltily I came a your bedside.

There are things I was thinking, son: I had been cross a you. I scolded you as you were dressing para school because you gave your face merely a dab con a towel. I took you a task para not cleaning your shoes. I called out angrily when you threw some of your things en the floor.

At breakfast I found fault, too. You spilled things. You gulped down your food. You put your elbows en the table. You spread butter too thick en your bread. y as you started off a play y I made para my train, you turned y waved a hand y called, “Goodbye, Daddy!” y I frowned, y said en reply, “Hold your shoulders back!”

Then it began all over again en the late afternoon. As I came Up the road, I spied you, down en your knees, playing marbles. There were holes en your stockings. I humiliated you before you boyfriends by marching you ahead of me a the house. Stockings were expensive – y if you had a buy them you would be more careful! Imagine that, son, form a father!

Do you remember, later, when I was reading en the library, how you came en timidly, con a sort of hurt look en your eyes? When I glanced up over my paper, impatient at the interruption, you hesitated at the door. “What is it you want?” I snapped.

You said nothing, but ran across en one tempestuous plunge, y threw your arms around my neck y kissed me, y your small arms tightened con an affection that God had set blooming en your heart y which even neglect could not wither.
y then you were gone, pattering up the stairs.

Well, son, it was shortly afterwards that my paper slipped desde my hands y a terrible sickening fear came over me. What has habit been doing a me? The habit of finding fault, of reprimanding – this was my reward a you para being a boy. It was not that I did not love you; it was that I expected too much of youth. I was measuring you by the yardstick of my own years.

y there was so much that was good y fine y true en your character. The little heart of you was as big as the dawn itself over the wide hills. This was shown by your spontaneous impulse a rush en y kiss me good night. Nothing else matters tonight, son. I have come a your bedside en the darkness, y I have knelt there, ashamed!

It is a feeble atonement; I know you would not understand these things if I told them a you during your waking hours. But tomorrow I will be a real daddy! I will chum con you, y suffer when you suffer, y laugh when you laugh. I will bite my tongue when impatient words come. I will keep saying as if it were a ritual: “He is nothing but a boy – a little boy!”

I am afraid I have visualized you as a man. Yet as I see you now, son, crumpled y weary en your cot, I see that you are still a baby. Yesterday you were en your mother’s arms, your head en her shoulder. I have asked too much, too much.