I tried to love my son.
I tried to love my son. stories
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I tried. I tried to convince myself there was nothing wrong with him. When he was six he got in trouble at school for killing beetles. “Boys will be boys,” I laughed, but I didn't believe it.
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I tried to love my son.

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I tried.

I tried to convince myself there was nothing wrong with him. When he was six he got in trouble at school for killing beetles. “Boys will be boys,” I laughed, but I didn't believe it.

I tried to convince myself that he was normal. When he was eight I saw him playing with a decapitated bird.

“It was already dead,” I assured myself, and I pretended the scissors I found later were just covered in paint, but I didn't believe it.

I tried to convince myself that he was a good person. When he was ten I found his drawings, graphic and disturbing, and full of hatred.

“It’s just a phase,” I told myself, but I didn't believe it.

I tried to convince myself that he would never hurt anyone. “It was an accident,” I told the nurses at A&E, when they pulled the fork out of my hand, but I didn't believe it.

I tried to convince myself that he wasn't dangerous. “She slipped and fell,” I said in my statement to the police, as they took the poor dead teen away, but I didn't believe it.

I tried to convince myself that it was out of his system, that he wouldn't hurt anyone else, that everything would be alright.

I didn't believe it.

“I tried to love you,” I whispered through tears as I trained the gun at his head.

“I know,” he replied, and I pulled the trigger.

The gun clicked, empty, and my son smiled. “I tried to love you, too.”

I didn't believe it.

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