His hand tightened slightly on my shoulder, but I don’t think he did it consciously.
“Now, I wasn’t a particularly good parent. . . which I like to think places me in the majority. I didn’t interact much with my kids. Business was always a good excuse, but the truth was that I was glad to let someone else handle their upbringing as much as possible. I can see now that it was because I was afraid that if I tried to do it myself, that in my ignorance and uncertainty I would make some terrible mistake. The end result was that some of the kids turned out okay, some of them… let’s say less than okay. What I was left with was a nagging feeling that I could have done better. That I could have-should have-made more of a difference.”
He released his hold on my shoulders and stood up.
“Which brings us to you.”
I wasn’t sure if I should feel uncomfortable because he was focusing on me, or glad because he was pacing again.
“I’ve never consciously thought of you as a son, but in hindsight I realize that a lot of how I’ve treated you has been driven by my lingering guilt from parenthood. In you, I had another chance to mold someone … to give all the advice I felt I should have given my own kids. If at times I’ve seemed to overreact when things didn’t go well, it’s because deep inside I saw it as a personal failure. I mean, this was my second chance. A time to show how much I had learned from my earlier perceived failures, and you know what? Now I’m giving it my full attention and my best shot, and things are still going wrong!”