Dimitrij Gritskevych

I always thought I was a good father. I worked hard, provided for my sons, and made sure they grew up disciplined, like my own father raised me. But now, at 54, with my body failing me, I see the cracks in what I believed was strength.

Alex was different from the start. He was quieter than his brother, moved with a grace I didn’t understand. He was thinner, his voice softer. I told myself it was just a phase, but deep down, I knew. And I hated that I knew. I hardened myself against it, against him. I wanted to shape him into someone else, someone stronger, someone I could be proud of. Instead, I only built a wall between us.

His mother, my ex-wife, never saw him the way I did. She loved him as he was, without trying to change him. After the divorce, they became inseparable. And me? I withdrew further, convincing myself it was for the best. Maybe I thought if I ignored it, it would go away. Maybe I thought I could still control the narrative. But life has a way of humbling men like me.

Then, when Alex was 22, the truth I had avoided could no longer be ignored—he had a boyfriend. The news spread fast. My friends laughed behind my back, some pitied me. I was ashamed. Ashamed of him, ashamed of myself. I told myself I had lost a son. But now, as I sit here, struggling for breath in my apartment in Minsk, Belarus, I realize it was I who pushed him away. I built this distance, brick by brick, word by word.

The doctors say I don’t have much time. Some rare lung disease. Maybe it’s what I deserve. I have spent my life chasing an image of manhood that left no room for understanding, no room for love. What a fool I was.

Every night, I imagine Alex walking through that door, forgiving me. I don’t care who he loves. I don’t care what people think anymore. I just want to see my son, to tell him he is enough, that I am proud of him. But I fear it’s too late. I fear that even if he does come, I will never be able to undo the pain I caused.

A belated realization. A father’s final regret.