The first time it happened, at a guess, was when the children were small. I was up to my tonsils in nappies and mayhem, falling asleep before my head hit the pillow, fat as a fool. Anyway. They feel ‘excluded’, fathers; isn’t that what the articles say? They have the weight of the world on their shoulders, and after a while - I’m convinced of this - they start to resent you, maybe even hate you. Then, one day, they love you madly again and you realise - slowly, you realise - that they have been up to something. They’ve had a fright. They’ve come running back home.
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| — | Until the girl died by Anne Enright (via spanishexposition) |
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