Tell My Son His Father Loves Him

The house was silent when I finally made up my mind. My wife was asleep upstairs, and my son’s soft breathing came from his room down the hall. I stood in the living room, the lights off, staring at the letter I had just finished writing. My hands were shaking, but I felt a strange calm wash over me as I read the words one last time:

“Tell my son that his father loved him. I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough to stay. I’m sorry I couldn’t be the man you both deserved.”

I folded the letter carefully, placing it on the kitchen counter where I knew my wife would find it in the morning. I couldn’t bring myself to look at any of their pictures as I walked out the door. I was already struggling to keep my emotions in check, and I knew that one glance at their smiling faces would shatter what little resolve I had left.

The walk to the bridge felt like a march toward the inevitable. Each step carried me further from the life I could no longer bear. My heart was heavy with a mixture of dread and resignation. By the time I reached the bridge, the weight of my decision had settled firmly on my shoulders.

Now, standing at the edge, I stare down at the dark, swirling water below. The wind is cold against my skin, but I barely notice it. All I can think about is how peaceful it will be once this is over. No more pressure. No more pretending. Just silence. I take a deep breath and prepare to take that final step when a voice cuts through the darkness.

“You really think that’s the way out?”

I whip around, startled. A man steps out from the shadows beneath the bridge, his clothes ragged, his face weathered. He’s a homeless man, clearly. His eyes, though, are sharp and focused, as if he’s seen this scene play out before.

“What do you care?” I snap, the desperation in my voice betraying me. “This isn’t your problem.” He doesn’t flinch, just shrugs and walks closer, settling himself down on the cold concrete like he’s done it a thousand times. “Maybe not. But I’m here, and so are you. So, talk to me.”

I almost laugh at the absurdity of it. This man, who looks like he’s barely hanging on himself, wants to talk me out of jumping? But something about the calmness in his demeanor, the way he looks at me without pity or judgment, makes me pause.

“I’ve got nothing left,” I say, my voice cracking. “I’ve got a job, a family… but I’m drowning. Every day, it’s harder to pretend like I’m okay. I can’t keep going like this.”

He nods slowly as if he’s heard this story before. “You’re not the only one who feels that way. The world’s full of people carrying weights they think they can’t handle. But you’ve got more than you realize.”

I shake my head, unable to meet his eyes. “You don’t understand.”

“Maybe I do,” he counters, and there’s something in his voice that makes me look up. “I had a life once. A good one, too. A family, a job, a future. But one mistake—just one—and it was all gone. An accident. I was driving too fast, too tired, and I lost control of the car. My wife and kids didn’t make it.” His words hit me like a punch to the gut. I look at him, really look at him, and see the pain etched deep in his features, the kind of pain that never fully goes away.

“I tried to end it too, more times than I can count,” he continues, his voice steady but laced with sorrow that I recognize all too well. “But every time, I couldn’t do it. Maybe because deep down, I knew it wouldn’t change anything. It wouldn’t bring them back. So now, I survive. Day by day, meal by meal. And maybe one day, I’ll find a way to forgive myself. But until then, I keep going, because as long as I’m breathing, there’s still a chance for things to get better.”

The words hang in the air between us, and I feel something shift inside me. This man, who has lost everything, still chooses to live. He still believes there’s a reason to keep going, even when life has taken so much from him.“What if I can’t fix it?” I ask my voice barely a whisper. “What if I’m just not strong enough?”

He stands up, walks over to me, and places a hand on my shoulder. His grip is firm, reassuring. “You don’t have to fix everything right now. Just make it through tonight. Go home, tell your son you love him. Take it one step at a time.”I think about my son, his bright eyes full of trust, and I realize that I can’t do this to him. I can’t leave him with the memory of his father giving up.

I take a deep breath, the cold air filling my lungs, and step back from the edge. The tears I’ve been holding back finally spill over, but this time, they’re not tears of despair—they’re tears of release.“Thank you,” I say, my voice choked with emotion. “I don’t know what I would’ve done…”He gives me a sad smile. “Just remember, there’s always more to live for than to die.”

I watch him walk away, his silhouette blending into the night until he’s gone. My chest feels tight, but there’s a warmth there too, something I haven’t felt in a long time. I’ve lived on this bridge for years, seeing people come and go, some with hope, others with despair. But tonight, I did something that mattered.

I walk back to my spot under the bridge, the cold seeping back into my bones. My stomach growls, reminding me that I haven’t eaten in two days. The nights are getting colder, and I don’t know how many more of them I’ll survive. But tonight, that doesn’t matter as much.

For the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m part of something bigger than just surviving. I made a difference in someone’s life, even if only for a moment. And as I settle in for the night, I realize that maybe, just maybe, there’s still something worth holding on to.

As I walk away from the bridge, the weight on my chest begins to lift, just a little. I think about what the man said, taking it one step at a time. I can’t fix everything overnight, but I can try. I can go home, hold my son, and tell him that his father loves him.

And maybe, I can start to believe it too. As I turn the corner toward home, the thought hits me with a clarity I haven’t felt in months:

There’s more to live for than to die.

Mohamed Eid