
Old man, don’t you dare come here. I don’t need you. Just go die of old age alone.
That was the text message I received from my son on the night of December 22nd. Cruel, sharp, like a bucket of ice water thrown in the face of this old father who was busy packing gifts from the ranch to go to the city and visit his boy.
The neighbors who passed by and saw me standing there stunned said, “Oh, let it go. Kids grow up and become ungrateful. That’s just how it is.”
No way.
I didn’t believe it. Not at all. The son who cried his eyes out when I cut my hand. The son who swore in front of his mother’s grave that he would roast a lamb for me this year could not have written those words filled with hate.
Something was wrong.
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