Suki Jones 

Ever since my son was born, my life was dominated by drink. Alcohol became my way of numbing everything I didn’t want to face, a constant companion that got me through most days. In the middle of all that, my son looked up to me like I was some sort of hero. He idolized me, copied everything I did—how I dressed, styled my hair, the way I cracked jokes or got around things with charm and cheek. It was like he wanted to be a little version of me. But the sad truth is, he even picked up the traits I wished he hadn’t—lying convincingly, pushing boundaries, and thinking he had to be clever to get by.

Then, the day came when he found out about my affair. I don’t know how much he really understood, but it was enough to change something between us. The man he idolized had let him down, and I don’t think he’s looked at me the same way since. That knowledge tears me up inside. I can see it in his eyes sometimes, this confusion—like he’s trying to figure out who I really am. Is the dad he loved still there, or has everything changed forever? That uncertainty haunts me.

He’s only nine, but he’s far stronger and more resilient than I ever was. Every other weekend when he comes to stay with his sister, I see glimpses of the boy who once thought I was everything. He’s still my little boy, but I don’t know the pain he feels, or what he thinks about everything that’s happened. His perfect image of me and of our family is gone, shattered by the mess I’ve made. The divorce is one thing, but the thought that I’ve damaged how he sees me as his father? That’s what breaks me the most.

When he’s here, I notice how he still doesn’t treat this place like his home. He calls it “my place,” never “ours.” He talks about his things being at his mum’s, but it’s like this place is temporary for him. It makes me ache, because I want him to know that everything I have is his, too. But I get it—the distance, the confusion. It wasn’t there before. Sometimes I wonder if I should’ve stayed with his mum, somehow lied my way through the affair to keep our family together for him and his sister. But that wouldn’t have been for me—it would’ve been for them. And what kind of life would that have been?

I try to convince myself that staying in an unhappy marriage wouldn’t have helped anyone. How could I have been the father he needed if I was miserable, hiding behind lies? But the guilt is always there. Now, living alone, my life is more ordered, less chaotic, but the mess of what I did still follows me. I like to think I’m more emotionally present with my kids now, more invested. But that dark cloud still hangs over me, the mistakes I made, the hurt I caused.

One of the worst memories—the moments I hate myself for the most—were the early days after the separation, before rehab, when I was still drinking. I was drunk around him too many times, and he must’ve been scared. He never said a word, but I saw it in his eyes. That innocent confusion, not fully understanding but knowing something wasn’t right. I hate myself for putting him through that, for letting him see me like that. I don’t know what kind of scars it left behind, and I fear I may never truly know.

But somehow, despite everything, he still loves me. I can see it in the way he looks at me when we’re together. We play games, laugh at jokes, and I can tell he’s still trying to connect with me in the same way he did before. But even that love comes with its own weight of guilt. I don’t feel like I deserve it. Not after everything I’ve put him through, not after turning his life upside down. But that love, as pure as it is, gives me hope. Hope that I can rebuild. Hope that I can become the father he deserves.

For the first time in my life, I actually feel like I’m on that path—becoming the dad I should’ve been all along. I’ve been sober for a few months now, and it’s changed everything. I’m truly present in his life—not just physically, but mentally and emotionally. I see him for who he is, not for who I wanted him to be. I used to push my expectations onto him, thinking he should be just like me. Now, all I want is for him to be happy, to be his own person, and I think—no, I hope—he’s starting to see that.

Looking back, I can’t even recognize the man I used to be. I shudder when I think of what could’ve happened if my affair hadn’t been found out. I would’ve kept drinking, kept pretending everything was fine, spiraling further out of control. Honestly, I think I would’ve drunk myself to death, all while pretending I was still being a good dad. It’s terrifying to think how close I came to losing it all. Now, with a few months of sobriety under my belt, the connections I’m building with my kids feel more real, more meaningful than anything we had before.

I know my kids might still think badly of me for what happened. They’ve seen me at my worst, and they have every right to hold onto those feelings. But I also know I’m being a better father now than I ever was. I used to throw money at the problem, buying them things to make up for my absence. I don’t have that money anymore, but what I do have is time. Time that I should’ve been giving them all along. My daughter is 13, my son is 9, and I don’t think I’ve ever spent as much quality time with them as I do now. Yes, we lived under one roof back then, but we weren’t really together—not like we are now.

Even in the small moments, I can see how much I’ve changed. Like just the other morning, when I was in the shower, music on, enjoying a rare moment to myself. My son knocked on the door, but I couldn’t hear him over the music. I got out, thinking it was something serious. He looked worried because the TV wasn’t working—the sound had connected to my speaker. In the past, I would’ve lost my temper. I would’ve snapped, telling him I couldn’t even get five minutes to myself, that it was ridiculous to bother me over something so small. But this time, I stayed calm. I explained it was because the TV connected to the speaker, and I turned it off. I did tell him it wasn’t that urgent, but without any anger. That’s a small example, but to me, it means everything. It shows just how far I’ve come.

I know the guilt and regret will always be there. But so is the chance to be better, to show him I can change, that I can be the father he needs me to be. For the first time, I’m committed to that. Not just for him and his sister, but for myself too. I’m building a new life, one where I can finally be the man I should’ve been all along.