My one and only son.

I let Jack be Jack. Don’t know if that was wise. Can’t say, for sure. Here Jack is. Dying. In his 50s. Lung cancer. Jack was a smoker. A drinker, too. He did pretty much as he pleased. In the process. He abused himself. And maybe others, too.  Jack became my one and only son. When he was 8. When I married Jeanne. And there I was. With a ready-made family. Jack and 12-year-old daughter Kiki. Turns out. That everything evolved reasonably well. For Kiki.  Far more ups than downs. Too many downers in Jack’s life. Maybe I should have intervened. More than I did. Maybe I was too much an observer. Rather than a participant. That’s the way I am. Maybe I’m protecting myself. By not getting too emotionally involved. I allow people to be themselves. Because I don’t have the power to change them. They have to take charge of their own lives. I can’t save anyone. But myself. Of course, I think Jack could have done better with his life. Who am I to say that Jack wasn’t happy? He had three relationships. That produced three children. Two sons and a daughter. One son died. In his 20s. An accident. He drowned. His other two children. Now adults. Have distanced themselves from Jack. Maybe I’m guilty, too. Of distancing.  Protecting myself. From anguish. That comes with too much emotional involvement in the lives of others. --Jim Broede