Why Is Denying My Son'S Guilt A Common Parental Reaction?

I went to exactly one party in my new, wealthy neighborhood. Then my neighbor Brenda sued me. In court, she held her bruised and battered daughter, Tiffany. She accused my son of rape. Mid-hearing, Tiffany tugged her collar down. Red marks circled her neck. "He tried to rip my pants off," she sobbed. "He tried to force himself on me. I fought back. So he beat me. He ruined my face!" Outside the courthouse, protesters held up signs, calling my son a piece of trash, a spoiled rich kid. Online, a photoshopped memorial of me went viral. The caption read: The unfit mother should die with her son. My company’s stock plummeted. But I just sat there. Stone-faced. I asked for my son, Cooper, to be brought in. The courtroom doors opened. Cooper walked in. Everyone froze.

I lost my dear son, Henry, to a traffic accident. He had been on his way to one of his part-time jobs. Despite working a lot, my son was still a top scorer on the SATs. “Mom, I don’t want treatment,” he begged with his last breath. “I just want Dad.” In my despair, I called Matthew Foster, my husband, more than one hundred times, but he never answered. We had been married for eighteen years, but one day, he spent all of our savings in order to pay for the treatment of his deceased comrade’s son. That got us into a debt worth one million dollars. To help him pay for it, both Henry I and worked hard to earn money. My son went as far as working five part-time jobs a day! That accident cracked his head open and tore his stomach. He was in urgent need of money for treatment. Since Matthew was not responding, I had to leave Henry’s side to rush to his workplace, where I ended up hearing that he was throwing a party for someone else’s son because he had gotten into a prestigious school. “Mr. Foster gave Zack a seaside mansion, a luxury car, and a limitless black card in hopes that he will succeed in his future studies and have a smooth and healthy life.” As I watched my “poor” husband hug his comrade’s widow and son, I called him for the 101st time. “Henry wants to see you one last time.” “I’m busy right now, Wendy. Be good with Henry and wait a little while longer.” When Matthew hung up impatiently, I put down my phone in silence. I whispered, “Matthew, Henry can no longer wait for you.” At that moment, I decided that I was not going to wait for him anymore either.

When I picked up the final course of my antidepressants and was about to leave, I ran into my biological parents, who were at the hospital to give a lecture. Five years had passed since we'd last seen each other, yet my father recognized me at a glance. Disbelief flickered across his face. "Your illness... still isn't better?" I said nothing and continued walking toward my room. "How did your life end up like this?" My father looked at me with obvious anguish, his eyes reddening. "Julian, your mother and brother miss you. Come home with me." I stopped in my tracks and slowly rolled up the sleeves I wore year-round, no matter the season. "That's your home," I said quietly. "It stopped being mine a long time ago." Hundreds of scars crisscrossed both of my arms. Countless emergency rescues. Countless nights spent fighting through unbearable pain. Long ago, all of it had worn away every trace of love and resentment I once felt toward my parents. Now, I was finally leaving the illness behind, and I had a new family. For the rest of my life, all I wanted was to live well.

My son is dead. He dies in a cramped toilet cubicle after having his skull smashed in. My husband, the school principal, arrives on the scene. The first thing he does is carry his true love's son, the one who killed my son, into an ambulance. They hurriedly leave. Before his death, my son tells me, "Don't cry, Mom. I'm not sad that Dad doesn't believe me. It's enough that you do…" I call Joshua Tucker during my son's funeral. He roars angrily, "Kenny had to get two stitches on his arm because of your son! If you keep pestering me like this, I'll beat him up when I get home!" My son? I look at the gaping hole in my son's head, the one that won't ever bleed anymore. I shut my eyes. Yes, he's my son. My son is dead, Joshua. From now on, there's nothing between us.

My son, Tyler Youngblood, has a failing kidney. He needs a kidney transplant. My wife, Ruth Lister, asks me to donate one of mine. On the day of the surgery, I turn off my phone and disappear. My entire family frantically searches for me, and I don't show up until four hours later. Because of the delay, Tyler misses the optimal treatment window and tragically dies. My family accuses me of being heartless and stirs up public opinion against me, saying I am unfit to be a father. I leisurely sip my coffee and say, "It's not like his mother is dead. Why didn't she donate her kidney instead?"

At the Christmas dinner table, my drunk uncle suddenly turned on my mom. “You know, Sis, you’re pretty shameless, aren’t you? Every year, I give Anna five hundred bucks as a Christmas gift, but you’ve never given my daughter anything!” The rest of the family had clearly been holding this in for a while. Since someone had said it out loud, they all jumped in at once to accuse my mother of always taking and never giving. They called her selfish and stingy. My mother suddenly grabbed me by the hair and slapped me. “Anna, why didn’t you tell me you got money from them? Have you been hiding cash? You made me look like I can’t return a simple favor! Happy now?” I had clearly given her everything I ever received! With the way she twisted the truth, I ended up becoming the liar in everyone’s eyes. As a result, later that night, when a fishbone got lodged in my throat and I choked, everyone just sat there laughing and watching. They were convinced that not only had I lied about the gift money, but I was also trying to scam them for medical bills.