“Frank was a terrible father.” Spoke a man standing in a black suit stood slightly hunched over a podium, a somber look encapsulating his face. He was grizzled, his eyes and cheeks showed signs of stress and fatigue that one only gets from age and experience, though the experience one of negative value. His greying hair was neither handsome nor clean, his grease slicked hair further showed his disheveled state had been one unattended for long.

His eyes remained fixed on the podium his hands rubbed together in a nervous tick he had picked up as a kid. “In times like this I’m reminded of a moment that Frank showed what kind of father he was. I was only ten years old, fresh out of school for the day, and I came home to my poor mother crying and pleading Frank to put down that whiskey bottle that always seemed to be in his hand as I grew up.” The man stopped for a moment, resuming the hand rubbing that had stopped while he spoke.

Frowning, the man continued. “Frank snapped at my mom and hit her that day.” He stopped again, furrowing his brow even deeper, he looked towards the audience that was sitting in front of him. The rows of filled booth seats in the church stared back at him, while the man could see everyone from where he stood, he could not bring himself to make out a single individual.

The man choked for a moment, his face becoming red as he tried to hold back tears, but he pressed on. “That was the first time he hit her; my mother was never same. And Frank never stopped drinking, everyday until I was 18 that man drank from dawn till dusk.” This moment in the story seemed to cause the biggest reaction in the man. His face was burning hot and red, tears flowing while he fixated on the podium in front of him. “I left the house at 18 and didn’t look back, well at least not until I had kids myself. I thought of my mother when I contacted Frank, she deserved to see them, not him. But Frank had killed her, when I left there was no one there for her, and she took her life a year after I left. I left my mother and didn’t look back for five years, only to find out she was gone for four.”

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

The man looked back at the crowd, this time he faced his own kids, never had he shown them the face he was making. “I didn’t let Frank in until my oldest was ten, he had changed. He had told me that he didn’t drink a drop after my mother died, he had said that he realized he was going to be alone for the rest of his life because he himself had pushed everyone away.”

The man wiped his tears and continued. “But Frank was a grandfather, a better mentor and guide in my kids’ lives than he was in mine.” The man paused, proud as he looked into the eyes of a few of those in the audience. “It at times like these that I am reminded of what kind of man Frank was. I was 43 years old, and I was just laid off, I came home drunk, I had hidden the fact I was laid off from my wife and drank myself away for an entire day. But before I could even make it inside Frank was there to stop me. Frank sat me down and told me why he started to drink.” The man looked solum again, not only at his own struggles but with what even more so about what he was about to say.

“Frank was only eighteen when he decided to fight in the war, he was just a kid, him and his brother joined to save the world he thought. But before his eyes his brother was killed mercilessly, and his brother was just one of many that happened to. Frank told me that when he came home he was fine for a while, but that kind of thing changes a man. He began to lash out and just drank to get away from the thoughts in his head. Frank apologized again to me, he had done it so many times before, but I never felt it truly until then.”

The man smiled, “Frank was a terrible father to me, but he was one of the greatest men I have ever known.”