Son,

 Dear son,

My boy, it's been ten years since I last saw your beautiful eyes. I have been here and there, experiencing life in its different shades. I don't know what to tell you, for I don't know the man you've mutated into. 

You've only seen me like four times in your life, my boy, and I can't conjure up a worthy excuse for my absenteeism. You came into the world when I was just beginning to live, you threatened to rob my youth, to dissect my promising life into nothingness. 
I was stupid then, so I didn't even think much; I left your mother to fend for you. Luckily for both of us, your mother was strong; how she mustered the courage to raise a man still beats me. 

I should probably start with an apology, but that's not how I was raised, son. Men used to be men in our time, which means the word 'sorry' only formed up from the mouths of wimps. The best I can give you is to tell you that I acknowledge how my disappearance and my apparent detachment from you and your mother may have made your life harder. But life would have still been harder even if I were there, but I guess the warmth of a father's security and strength would have been a welcome solace.

The reason we don't say sorry outright is that once we do so, then we have redirected the flow of the stream away from its natural course; people will judge every mistake we ever made, thinking we were sorry for them as well, when we weren't. It's better if I tell you my reasons, and then you can decide for yourself whether I need to be forgiven or not, even doctors sometimes are forced to write a prescription for a patient just by observing their symptoms. 

Son, by now, you have started interacting with the opposite sex, getting lost in their beauty and their feminine silkiness. I know that is what drew me to all the women I've ever been into, and you're my son, so my guess is that's what draws you to the honey pot as well. I am making the assumption that you like women, though from the interactions I have had with my peers and their sons, there is a possibility that the reality could be otherwise. If that's the case, I have no problem with it. 

Interacting with women is a complex undertaking. You see, son, they are the most delicate of creatures; they are like a drug - they fill up all your holes with overflowing ecstasy, but once they're done with you, the ecstasy transforms to despair. I had problems with that when I was about your age. I still have vivid memories of the excruciating pain. The emptiness I felt when a woman decided that she deserved better. And when I couldn't take it anymore, I flipped the switch. 

My heart was like a hand with frostbite, and for a while, women were driven crazy by it. That was around the time I met your mother, what bad timing. She was everything a man like me would dream of; it was like I had imagined her right to life. The problem was that by the time I had decided against marriage, I was a traveler who sought the village inn for a night of rest - when morning came, I went packing. 

There are many other things that we did to each other, but unpacking all of them to you would be forcing you into the role of a judge when I only want you to be my son. So let's forget that, it won't help my case anymore than it would help hers. 

My boy, I have traveled the world, I have learnt so much, I have met amazing people, but it's not enough. I left my hometown in order to chase my dream and my career, and I have done so. I have reached the utmost heights of human success, though success is a subjective term. With all the fame, the recognition, the success, it hurts me that being a great father is not on that list. 

I have missed your biggest moments in life, your birthdays, your circumcision. I didn't get the chance to dirtify my hands with the mud that moulded you into the man you are now. I can be naive and blame my prickly dad for how he raised me, but I have never been known to be naive, and I'm sure you will see right through my bullshit. At least my father was there to see me grow up, to watch my life, even though he scolded me the entire time. 

I am not asking for your forgiveness, I am portraying my disappointment, my resentment with myself. A father should never have to ask for forgiveness from his son; he should be the light in the darkness, the steady object for his son to hold on to when he is drowning or when he is on a slippery road. I have already failed you as a father, so I won't fail you further by asking for your forgiveness. The only thing I am going to give you is lessons. 

If life has come to this, that I have to live a shitty life so that I can ensure my son doesn't, then let's take the lesson, my boy. I hope to spend more time with you, then you can learn more about the awesome things your Dad has done. This letter is my insurance - in case you decide you don't want to spend time with me, or in case something happens to me before we do, since life's unpredictability is something I understand very well. For now, though, I hope that you learn, through your father, that life is a fleeting journey. 

I have interacted with millions of people and a few thousands on a personal note, and one thing stood out to me. The household that we grew up in, the family dynamics that usher our curious, developing brains into the world - well, they are everything. We carry the distinct behaviors from them like marked slaves, we can lie, but when we are stripped naked, there it is, for all to see. 

You see, we can't run from ourselves, and our parents are more or less a significant part of ourselves. Do you read much? There is a poem by Philip Larkin that slices my heart like steak. It says, "They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do."

You are just twenty, so you haven't reached that age of introspection yet, that age when you want to mentally dissect yourself with a surgeon's precision. That's when you will realize just how much your family fucked you up. This is not a threat, my boy. I am taking you to the armoury, showing you the right weapons for the war that is knocking on the door. You will be ready. 

What I want you to do when that age comes is to avoid being too extreme. Don't be too nonchalant, and don't go running around, trying to reverse your identity. Both paths lead to disaster, I know because I tried both. You're better off wearing your family's dysfunctional element as a vest - you'll survive the bullets that the world will shoot at you. Don't worry about the head, life doesn't shoot to kill, its objective is eternal torment. 

Let me tell you about careers. That's perhaps the only thing that I got right, or at least I thought I did. I am a man of forty-five. I used to think that one should find a career that puts their soul on perpetual fire, that one should only think of oneself. And I followed that advice. I don't regret my career, and I have never experienced those burnouts that my peers complain about. But now I have changed my mind. I believe that the career you choose should directly change people's lives. Notice the word 'directly.' Getting paid so that you can better the lives of your community is not direct change. Think politics, leadership, and charity. Art and creative careers don't change people's lives directly, even though they are the most fulfilling. You'll understand this better as time goes.

My boy, here I am writing this long letter, and I don't even have your address, let alone the fact that you might decide to toss my letter into the trash can. It is my hope that pushes me to do this, as I have learnt that hope is the last bandage that our wounds need before they start rotting. 

Love and regret,

Father.