Chapter 21 - My Own Anger
I spent years believing story was about what Harold did.
It was also about what I could have done.
When I saw Jake in hospital, I wanted violence.
Not abstract.
Specific.
I knew how to hurt people.
I had training.
I had old contacts.
I called Mason and said:
“Unbury it.”
Then I said:
“I’m putting my family in the dirt.”
Those words haunted me.
I never acted.
Still said.
Jake heard part.
Later he asked.
“What did you mean?”
“I was furious.”
“You wanted kill?”
“I wanted consequences and my language went beyond what I should have said.”
“Would you?”
“No.”
“How know?”
“Because I didn't.”
Then:
“Is thinking bad?”
“Thinking is not action, but repeated fantasies can steer action. So I dealt with.”
Therapy.
Anger management.
No shame.
I had learned control professionally.
I needed learn personally.
Then Christine’s fear of me.
Some came from Harold’s manipulation.
Some from real history.
During our marriage, I never hit.
Never threatened.
But I shouted.
Slamming doors.
Once punched a wall during argument before Jake was born.
Christine remembered.
I minimized.
After everything, I admitted.
That behavior had consequences.
It helped Harold build false narrative because false narratives work best when they borrow real fragments.
I changed.
Not to prove Christine wrong.
Because Jake watched.
At work, I stopped using intimidation as leadership.
I apologized to employees I had yelled at.
My partner Alan said:
“Trauma made you nicer.”
I answered:
“Expensive route.”
Then years later, Lily spilled paint in my living room.
I felt irritation.
Jake watched.
I said:
“Okay. Towels.”
He laughed.
“What?”
“Grandpa Ethan didn’t explode.”
“Should I?”
May you like
“No.”
Cycle changes in small moments.
