And I sit there and I tell them time and time again that he's a good person. That he's a fantastic man who is brilliant and successful and deserving of their goddamn love and affection. I get drunk and I slur that they're missing out, because they choose to.
It never makes a difference. They'll speak to him when they need something. If they don't, he doesn't exist. And he's cried to me about it. He has cried because he deserves the goddamn love that they refuse to show because he drew the short card when it came to who his mother was.
I love him.
I wish they would get their heads out of their asses and love him too.