He died the way he lived…
… an arsehole

If you want to have children, then bear in mind that you have to look after them.
My father didn’t spend a tiny fraction of the time I spend with my kids. He would come home late, pamper his dear little car on Saturdays and play golf on Sundays.

He died when I was fifteen. He got a cancer which lasted 6 months. He could have seized the “opportunity” to get closer, give us advice, prepare us for what was to come, simply catch up with us... but he didn’t.
The night he died, I was listening to some pop music in my room.
For a long time I felt guilty, cose I didn’t really cry. Now that I have 3 kids, I know why : he was an arshole.

And, well, I would say pretty much the same about my mum (who is still alive, I believe), though it was rather different.
My mother was the paradigm of hypocrisy. She would give you one of those big, sincere smiles and, the minute after, stab you right in the back. So much so that nowadays I have trouble trusting words and smiles.
But there is worse. My mother has never been psychologically stable. She transferred her malaise to a little boy who, come to think of it, was endowed with a perfectly sound mind. And when you keep saying to a little boy that he is not well in his mind, after a while he will start believing you and become what he wasn’t at first.
How can you be content when you alienate your own kids from yourself?
How can you look at yourself in a mirror when you spend your time turning your kids against one another?

Let me conclude by quoting the actor Robin Williams :
« It doesn’t matter if you’ve got style, fame or money. If you have no heart, you’re worth nothing. »

My kids are happy. They are and feel loved. And they have learned to share that love. That’s what matters.


Old Bitch