CONFESSION OF YOUR FATHER. Listen son. I say these words when you sleep. Your small hand is placed under your cheek, and your curly hair is stuck together on your damp forehead. A few minutes ago a heavy wave of remorse washed over me. I came to your bed with a consciousness of my guilt. This is what I was thinking about, son: I often took my bad mood out on you, and helped you little in your childhood life. You asked me to help you solve a school problem, and I edifyingly said that you need to learn to solve your problems yourself. I scolded you when you were getting dressed to go to school, because... you just touched your face with a wet towel. I scolded you for not cleaning your shoes. I yelled at you angrily when you threw some of your clothes on the floor. I also nagged at you at breakfast. You spilled the tea. You greedily swallowed the food. You rested your elbows on the table. You buttered the bread too thickly. And then, when you went to play, and I was in a hurry to catch the train, you turned around, waved at me and shouted: “Goodbye, dad!”, I frowned and answered: “Straighten your shoulders!” Then at the end of the day it all started again. Walking on the way home, I noticed you on your knees playing with marbles. There were holes in your stockings. I humiliated you in front of your comrades by forcing you to walk home ahead of me. Imagine, son, what your father said and did. Do you remember when I was reading, you came to me timidly, with pain in your eyes? When I glanced at you, irritated at being interrupted, you remained hesitant at the door. "What do you want?" - I asked sharply. You didn’t answer, but impulsively rushed to me, hugged me by the neck and kissed me. Your hands squeezed me with the love that God put in your heart and which even my neglect could not dry up. And then you left, scurrying up the stairs. So, son, soon the newspaper slipped out of my hands and a terrible, sickening fear took possession of me. What did habit do to me? The habit of nagging and scolding - this was my reward for you for being a little boy. It’s not that I didn’t love you, the whole point is that I expected too much from my youth and measured you by the standard of my own years. In my mind I saw you as a grown man. But now, when I see you, son, wearily huddled in your crib, I understand that you are still a child. Just yesterday you were in your mother’s arms, and your head was lying on her shoulder. I demanded too much, too much. And there is so much healthy, beautiful and sincere in your character. Your little heart is as big as the sunrise over the distant hills. This was manifested in your spontaneous outburst when you rushed to me to kiss me good night. Nothing else matters today, son. I came to your crib in the dark and, ashamed, knelt before you! This is weak atonement. I know you wouldn't understand these things if I told you all this when you woke up. But tomorrow I will be a real father! I will be your friend, suffer when you suffer, and laugh when you laugh. I will bite my tongue when an irritated word is about to escape. I will constantly repeat, like a spell: “He’s only a boy, a little boy! And he’s my son! What a blessing it is to have a son!” And what a horror it is to lose you morally, morally, and especially physically! And what a blessing it would be to have another son just like you, or even better, several, many such sons and daughters. In reserve... We are all geniuses and we are all fools, Just like our grandfathers and our fathers. There is no need to cut everyone with the same brush. It’s clear even to a child. D. Carnegie