THE DREAM I NEVER HELD

by Robert A. Cozzi

Today in the hospital lobby, I saw a father and his son. They were seated across from me, close enough that I could hear their quiet jokes and see the way the boy kept glancing up at his father with that bright-eyed, breathless wonder kids have, the kind that makes a heavy world feel almost forgiving. They were just passing time, killing an hour together the way fathers and sons do without realizing they’re performing a small miracle. At first, it made me happy. I felt good watching them. There's a profound comfort in witnessing a father and son exist in that small, perfect orbit of theirs.

But then, the familiar shift occurred: that slow, inevitable slide from pleasure back into the persistent sadness I can never seem to outrun. I don’t call it regret. It feels more like a reminder of the life I didn’t get. The life that was never meant for me.

When the doctor finally approached them, presumably with news about the loved one they were waiting for, I heard the father introduce his son as “my boy.” That simple phrase left a cold ache in my chest. It voiced exactly what I always wanted: to call a son “my boy” the way my own father once did. It’s unbelievable how certain phrases can slice open an old wound. Then the doctor crouched down to meet the boy at eye level and shook his hand, a gesture I always make when meeting someone’s child. When the father gently, casually tousled his son’s hair, I felt the phantom weight of a hand I will never get to use. It’s odd how specific gestures can inflict more pain than anything else. Perhaps it’s because we see our imagined selves in them: our hands, our voices, our tenderness, yet those actions remain trapped inside us, locked away, never permitted to exist anywhere else.

Sometimes I stop and ask myself: If given the choice, would I surrender every love, every triumph, every beautiful, chaotic moment I’ve experienced for just one chance to be someone’s dad? The answer is always yes. Every time. Without hesitation. That’s the part that hurts the most.

And now, at this age, it’s no longer a possibility I can entertain. I wouldn’t bring a child into my life knowing I might not be around long enough to see them grow, graduate, marry, stumble, rise, become. That feels unfair. It feels like a story I couldn’t finish, and a child deserves a whole book, not a half-written one.

What makes it strange is that I never feel this way with my friends who are dads. When they talk about their kids, when their faces light up or I see them all together, it genuinely feels good and right. I’m simply happy for them because I love them. Their joy feels like my own.

But strangers?

Strangers throw me entirely off-balance.

Any small warmth I feel watching them always dissolves into that same dark drop in my chest. My breath catches, leaving me completely hollowed out. It’s like some buried version of myself wakes up, looks around, and remembers what I never got to hold.

People say we adjust. We learn to carry the things life says no to. Maybe that’s true for some things. But not this. Not for me. This is the one “no” I don’t know how to carry.