Date: April 22, 2025
Author: Marcus Bellamy
I don’t know how to start this, because honestly, I don’t think there’s any way to make what I did sound okay. But I’ve carried this weight with me for so long, I guess I just need to get it out—somewhere, anywhere.
About ten years ago, my wife told me she was pregnant. We hadn’t planned for it. She’s Catholic, and abortion was never going to be on the table for her. And I—I wasn’t ready. Not even close. I wasn’t mature enough, emotionally grounded enough, hell, even stable enough financially or mentally to be someone’s dad. So I panicked.
But instead of stepping up, instead of learning to grow with the moment, I imploded. I drank. A lot. I became bitter, angry, reckless. I lashed out at the one person who needed me most—my wife. I yelled, I dismissed her feelings, I disappeared into a bottle night after night. I didn’t lay a hand on her, but my words? My moods? My absence? I know they left bruises too.
Then my son was born. Beautiful, wide-eyed, innocent—and completely unaware of the storm that surrounded him before he took his first breath. He was diagnosed with apraxia not long after. A speech disorder that makes it hard for his brain to coordinate the muscle movements needed for speaking. Certain sounds don’t come out right. Some never will. Even now, at ten years old, he makes up words because he doesn’t know the right ones, or because the real ones just won’t come out no matter how hard he tries.
And every time I hear him speak—every time I watch him struggle—I wonder if it’s because of me. Because I couldn’t keep it together. Because I let my own fear and selfishness turn a miracle into something I treated like a burden. I know there’s science behind these things. I know developmental issues don’t always have a single cause. But I can’t shake the guilt. I keep thinking: what if the stress, the chaos I brought into our home, the pain I caused his mother—what if all that found its way into him?
What if my meltdown became his lifelong mountain?
He doesn’t know this part of the story. To him, I’m just Dad. I read him stories. I help with homework. I cheer the loudest at his speech therapy recitals. And I love him. God, I love him more than I ever thought I could love anything. But there are nights—quiet, long, unforgiving nights—where I sit alone and remember the man I used to be. And I hate him. I hate that version of me. Because that man didn’t just wreck himself—he left scars on people who didn’t deserve them.
My son is the bravest person I know. He talks, even when it’s hard. He laughs, even when others don’t understand him. He tries, over and over again, even when it feels like the world doesn’t speak his language. And maybe that’s what keeps me going. Maybe that’s what gives me hope—that he’ll grow up stronger than I ever was. That he’ll forgive me, even if I can’t forgive myself.
I messed up. That part is mine to carry. But I’ll keep carrying it—every single day—if it means I can be the kind of father he actually deserves.
