“My father held Christopher’s little fingers protectively, proudly.
As one of those memories that you capture and that remains unchanged through the years, the image of the two of them walking along in that night produced a surprising reaction in me that would come back every time I recalled it. What first flashed in my brain and my heart was--How come that couldn’t have been me? How come I never got a chance to do that?
As time went on, I recognized that it wasn’t anger of course. But I was jealous of my little boy, ridiculous as that was. Below that layer, in the core of my being, was simple hurt.”