How it started
My father leaned in at my son’s wedding.
It was my second youngest son’s wedding. My own father leaned over and said, quietly, so nobody else heard it:
“Well Rob, I’m sorry for how I raised you. I was just doing what my father did to me.”
That moment hit like a lightning bolt. It was the trigger that started this movement.
He had never said it out loud before. Not once. And it didn’t land as an apology so much as a recognition — of a line running backward through men I never met, and forward through sons I would do anything for.
The father wound doesn’t disappear when you decide to be better. It goes underground. And it waits.