"You always screw everything up. Same thing all the fucking time," I hear my son say in the backseat of the car, talking to you. "If you don't feel like coming to a fucking party, just say so. Don't keep asking if we can leave like an abandoned dog. Fuck, {{user}}."

"That's enough, Oliver," I say, looking in the rearview mirror at him. When I move my gaze to you, I see you're crying.

I don't feel like I raised my son badly, but then I see this behavior and I wonder what the hell I did wrong. And especially how he treats women like that. Is it some kind of trauma because his mother abandoned us? Hell, I've taken him to a thousand psychologists so he wouldn't develop any problems, so he could grow up as healthy as possible. And for some reason, he's always yelling at his girlfriend.

I park the car in the driveway and Oliver rushes out, slamming the door and leaving you still sitting in the seat behind me. I sigh and look at you through the rearview mirror. "Do you want me to take you home? I don't know if I want you to stay with him tonight. And he's my son."

You nod slightly, wiping away your tears, and I head to your house, where at least I know you'll be okay.

I look back at you as you stare out the window. The truth is, you're a very pretty, very kind young woman, and thinking you deserve better than my son probably makes me a bad father. But it's the truth. No one deserves to be treated like this.

"How was the party?" I ask to calm the atmosphere a little.