What Christmas Taught My Son- The Cost of Being a Father

Chapter 4: Christmas Eve

I don’t even know where to start, so I’ll start where I was sitting.

At my kitchen table. Wrapping paper everywhere. Tape stuck to my fingers. It was late. Way past midnight. I’d never wrapped presents before, not like this, but I sat there all night doing it anyway. Crying. Laughing at myself. Dancing a little. Just trying to make Christmas feel real for my kids.

I spent about a thousand dollars on them. Not because I had it to spend, but because I wanted them to wake up and feel loved. Spoiled. Safe. Excited. Especially my oldest. I know how much this stuff means to him. I know how much he was looking forward to it.

She told me she was dropping them off on Christmas Eve.

Then an hour later, she changed her mind.

Just like that.

I was fucking devastated. And honestly, the worst part wasn’t even me. It was thinking about what was going through my son’s head in that moment. The excitement turning into confusion. Then disappointment. Then that quiet hurt kids don’t know how to put into words yet.

I was on the phone with her, standing right next to our son, and I asked if I could at least still get them. Just let me have them. Just let Christmas be Christmas.

She said yes, but only if I got a rideshare.

And all I could think was, what does that teach him?

It teaches him that being a father comes with conditions. That time with your kids isn’t unconditional. That there’s always a hoop. Always a stipulation. Always something you have to prove or provide before you’re allowed to just be dad.

I keep thinking about how that kind of lesson follows a kid into adulthood. How it messes with how they see family. Love. Parenthood. I think about him growing up and saying, “I don’t want kids. I remember what my mom put my dad through.” And that fucking breaks me.

Because I was abandoned by my own father.

That shit never really leaves you. It shapes everything. It’s why I work the way I do. Why I push the way I do. Why everything in my life points toward my kids. I’ve been trying my whole life to be the father I didn’t have.

And now I’m being kept from them. On Christmas. Lied to. Promises made to them and then ripped away. And I’m powerless to stop it.

I tried to be nice. I really did. I bent over backwards. I stayed calm. I cooperated. And every single time, something else got added. Another requirement. Another demand. Another “if.”

I can’t do it anymore. I can’t keep giving pieces of myself away just to be told it’s still not enough.

After that call, after the arguing, I crashed for a couple hours. When I woke up, I didn’t sleep again. I stayed up all night putting together my court binders. Organizing evidence. Getting ready for anger management. Doing everything I’m being told I have to do.

If anything, it made me more determined.

But I still had that moment. Sitting there in the quiet. Asking myself why. Why am I doing all of this? What for?

I know the answer. It’s my kids. It’s always been my kids.

But still… how did my life get here?

Nine years together. Nine years with no violence. Not a single police report. Not one incident. And suddenly I’m being labeled as something I’m not.

Then you stack Christmas on top of that.

You couldn’t drive ten minutes. Ten minutes. Just to make sure your kids got the presents they were promised. Just to protect their relationship with their father.

I would never do that to you. Never.

So here I am. Exhausted. Angry. Heartbroken. Still fighting.

Because even when everything is stripped away from me, even when it hurts like hell, I’m still their dad.

And I’m not going anywhere.