My father tells me this story of my childhood every once in a while:
When I was around six years old, my dad' s best friend committed suicide. We' ll call him "Joe" for the sake of the
story. , it was a very rough and emotional time for my dad. Joe was my dad' s best man at his wedding, the
one guy who was always there for him. After my dad got married, he and my mother left Joe and the town they
were in to start a life outside of the town they grew up in. After years of moving around California, my family
eventually moved to Utah, where my father worked for a successful internet business. Joe stayed behind in
Washington. Because my family were so far away from their old life with Joe, there wasn' t a lot of eyesight/ caming
that Joe intended on ending his own life.
Joe' s sister apparently had been blaming Joe' s wife for her brothers suicide. Joe and his wife drank a lot of booze,
and probably as a result, fought a lot. My father always said that they were a passionate couple; yes, they would
fight often, but he hardly knew two other individuals who were so completely in love. For this reason, he didn' t
A few days after Joe committed suicide, his widow called up my father sobbing about how she thought it was her
fault. After about an hour of trying to console her, he told her “If there was a way for me to talk to Joe now, I
guarantee you that he would tell you that he loved you, and that it wasn' t your fault that he ended his life." Crying,
she still didn' t believe him, but she thanked him for the kind words and let my father go.
My dad was obviously distraught after that long, hysteric conversation. He had been down in his suffice for a while,
and he decided to come up and check on his kids while making a pot of coffee to take his mind off of things. We
were all supposed to be napping, but he thought he' d peek his head into our rooms to make sure we were
safe/ maybe try to have a little smile or brightness added to his day.
Sure enough, when my dad got to my room, I was fast asleep on my bed. He went to my brother' s room, and he was
also sleeping. Finally, he checks on my sister, who is sleeping as smugly as an angel. He decides to go back towards
my room and into the kitchen to make some coffee.
As he walks by my room, he notices a whimper. He turns around, and enters my room, where he finds me weeping. I
was five years old, so the way I was crying seemed odd to him. Normally a five year old would cry drastically over
dramatically. I wasn' t. I was just sitting on the side of my bed, weeping.
My dad enters my room and says "Matty, whats up? Why are you crying?"
It' s then that I stop crying for a moment, look up at him with teary eyes and say "Rick, it' s not her fault. I love her.
It' s not her fault."
With that, I stopped crying, rolled over back onto my bed, and fell swiftly back to sleep.
Needless to say, my dad shit his pants.