Becoming a father came loaded with all sorts of strange expectations. I grew up thinking being a “good” husband meant not having arguments with my partner, that we should never disagree, and that we must present a united front. When I type these words, it’s as if they’re naked and I can see them for what they are: the advice you give someone else but would never take yourself.

My misguided “masculinity” had manifested in distorted ideas about duty to the partner I’d made a commitment to stand beside until death. Having children amplified that responsibility, extending it for another lifetime.

There were good realizations, too. I know that when we become parents, we try to undo the harm we felt was done to us as children. So I make a point to tell my sons how much I love them, and it was a punch to the gut a year or so ago when I overheard my parents saying, after I’d told my son that I loved him and he’d told me the same, “He’s so much better at this than we were.”

I don’t want my sons to wrap themselves into the same shitty knot that I have. On good days, I try to tell them to talk about how they feel. I try to remember to tell them that it’s perfectly normal to be angry, and that it’s important to listen to what that anger is telling you.

I am, of course, the hypocrite when my son sees me having a meltdown when I try to assemble his bunk bed, angrily refusing help. Why? Because I need to show him I can do it.

The worst thing is that when I get angry, I shout at my eldest son, and I can see that he’s afraid of me. How could I be so mean? I’m so disgusted with myself that I storm out of the house, yet I don’t even know what I’m angry about. I know I shouldn’t have acted the way I did, that I didn’t act the way I would want myself to. I leave the house because I think I’m a monster. Later, my therapist will tell me that all parents get angry at their children and will ask if I repaired my relationship with my son.

I come home once the anger has gone, but it has left behind a dark hole of shame. My wife encourages me to apologize to my son, and we hug. I don’t justify my behavior or try to defend it. I try to show him, again, how I love him. And the next morning, he wakes up and all he wants to do is play with me. For that moment, he’s forgiven me, we are repaired, and he’s just full of excitement and joy.