What I never had, I give you

Dave couldn’t wait to get home after work. The clickety-clack of the local train, the restless crowd moving here and there, and the chilly wind made every nerve in his head throb.

As soon as he reached home and stepped inside, his four-year-old son, John, ran to him with a colouring book and a box full of broken crayons. His wife was busy preparing dinner. Dave let out a deep sigh and asked John to wait a few minutes so he could freshen up. But John wouldn’t budge. So Dave pulled him onto his lap and began colouring the sun in the book. John kept chattering, asking questions, sharing updates about his day, and Dave grew increasingly impatient. He tried to stay calm, but eventually lost control of the constant nagging and hurled the colouring book at the wall.

John shuddered at the sight, curled his lips and ran to his mother. She looked at Dave for a few seconds, then quietly picked up her son and took him into the bedroom to console him.

Dave felt ashamed of losing his temper in front of the boy who meant the world to him. He stepped out for a walk in the neighbourhood park to clear his head. That’s when he bumped into Uncle Will. Seeing him brought a small wave of relief because Uncle Will had always been kind to Dave when he was a child.

Dave waved and invited him to sit beside him on the park bench. Uncle Will looked at him and asked gently, “What’s wrong, Dave?”

Dave admitted, “I lost my cool with my son. I’m not very proud of it.”

Uncle Will paused, then asked, “How old were you when your father passed away?”

Dave blinked, puzzled by the question. “I was four,” he replied.

“And what do you miss most about him?” Uncle Will asked.

Dave thought for a moment. “I don’t know.. maybe not being able to spend time with him. Not having him around when I needed him the most and ...”

He paused and looked at Uncle Will, his face slowly lighting up with realization.

Uncle Will gave him a gentle smile and said, 

“Dave, whatever you longed for from your father, be it his time, his words or his warmth, give all of that to your son. Give him the love you missed, and you’ll find healing in the giving.”

Dave walked back home and entered the house quietly, picked up the broken crayons from the floor, and placed them gently back in the box. “John,” he called softly, “Want to finish colouring the rest of the sunrise together?”