There are wounds that cut much deeper than a physical blow to the face. It is the agonizing sound of your own child celebrating a new beginning by wishing for your total absence from his life.
I was standing right there on the cold sidewalk in front of his beautiful house, wearing the leather shoes my wife gave me, just five minutes before the clock struck midnight. Let me introduce myself properly to you before I continue with this painful memory.
My name is Arthur Miller, and I am seventy one years old today after living what I once considered a very full and meaningful life. I am a retired technician from the State Electric Grid here in the suburbs of Oak Ridge, which is a quiet area nestled just outside of a bustling northern city.
I spent my entire life in this neighborhood raising my son and working like a dog because I always believed that family was a sacred bond. What a foolish thing for a man like me to believe for so many decades.
I spent forty two years of my career climbing freezing poles and fixing high voltage cables during the most dangerous winter storms. I suffered electric shocks that made my hair stand on end for a week, yet I never complained because I had a purpose.
