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Jonathan Katz was not a perfect man—far from it, in fact.
With not much to say for himself save for a semi-successful therapy practice.
For as long as there was misery—there too would be company.
But even then, despite of all his efforts, he’d still come to know patients who didn’t like him all too much.
All in a day’s work, he’d suppose.
He had known a great deal of trouble in his life, from a failed dream of becoming a shambling folk musician to the failed prospect of a lasting marriage.
A failed balladeer and a failed husband, he was.
But still—he was a father.
And his son—the only constant in his often tiring, lonely life.
The moment Ben had entered his life, all else would prove secondary to Jonathan.
In that very instant that skin touched skin—the sensation of holding that little life within his hands, a life that he himself had helped to create, it was as though everything up until that point had finally fallen into place.
He had failed before, and he’d fail again, but if one thing was for certain, was that he would not fail his son, and damned would he be if he did.
Ben’s first years were some of the happiest times Jonathan had ever felt—the first words, the first steps—Jonathan could hardly begin to believe it.
Fatherhood had been something he’d heard about and seen plenty of times before, a commonality amongst other people, but to finally experience it for himself-
It was everything.
For the very moment he had been appointed as father to his son, Jonathan knew from that point onward that life could never possibly get any better than that.
For there would be no greater thing that he would ever do.
There was nothing else to be—except be—for the sake of his son.
Years came and went and brought about their arguments, stress wore down on his back in ways that threatened to swallow him.
A glass of wine here, a cup of gin there, a bit of aspirin before bed—these had become the comforts to such aches.
But at the end of every burdening strain, there was nothing that a little hug and murmured apology couldn’t fix.
Still, that didn’t mean Jonathan was without his doubts.
Often times he’d wonder if he had somehow become a void in his son’s life. That his love, however meekly expressed—wasn’t enough.
It was something he wouldn’t dare think of for too long, in fear of the implications—yet it was something he could never quite escape.
The truth was, Ben was growing into a young man—a rather childish, often misguided young man—but a young man nonetheless.
Meaning that one day Jonathan’s place in Ben’s world would shift, shift like the hands of the clock steadily adjusting time—and life would change, whether he welcomed that change or not.
It didn’t mean that Jonathan didn’t long for his son to have a future—by all means, he had encouraged nothing but the best for his son when it came to his own independent endeavours.
But with each and every comedic or tragic stall of that progress, and with each coming day that Ben still remained at his father’s side, within his father’s house—Jonathan found it ever the more difficult to let go.
He was at a mental and emotional crossroads—wanting both for his son to spread his wings and fly—as well as to stay right there at home with him forever.
The dining table, where they always held their talks at breakfast was the only way Jonathan knew how to start his day.
A cup of coffee—the newspaper—and conversation with his son.
Sometimes there would be laughs; oftentimes, fights.
Yet those little moments were what gave him the strength to carry on.
They swirled within his heart with a subtle warmth, one he couldn’t live without.
Despite his professional air and outwardly calm composure, Jonathan was just as flawed as his patients.
A milquetoast pushover, with a voice that could carry no more of an authority than a dreary insurance seminar.
Roz had always been the disciplinarian—not him.
It had been years since the divorce, yet Jonathan stumbled along in the only way he knew best—motivated to live by nothing else other than the lazy laughter of his son.
No matter how many times Ben had left the TV on overnight, misplaced his date-book, or stole the car-keys only to return them half dented out of their original shape—Jonathan could never find himself being cross with him for long.
Yes, Ben’s antics would probably shorten his lifespan in the long run—but it improved his quality of life far more than any award-winning self-help book ever could.
What was a man to do?
Certainly this wasn’t living—was it?
What with him being single, tired, nearly bald—with hobbies that consisted of him either visiting the bar and frettingly joking amongst friends, trying to arrange festive events at work for no one other than himself and his ever-uninterested receptionist, or playing board-games with his adult son.
Surely, there must be more to life than this—he wouldn’t spend the rest of his remaining years doing the same old thing every day until he died, right?
Yes—yes, he would.
Did he care? Perhaps—perhaps a little.
But frankly, he didn’t mind at all.
Not if it meant he got to hear his son sleepily ring him up every given instance while he was at work—only for him to come back home to him later to gently remind him not to leave his dirty laundry on the couch.
Then no—he didn’t mind it.
Not one bit.