The voicemails were bad. He was drunk in the second one. He called me "a sanctimonious prick" and "someone who has never understood what parenting actually is." He said I was jealous because I only had one kid and my brother had three and "you can't take it that I have the bigger family." He said things about my wife that I will not write down. He said he hoped I was happy. He said he would never forget this conversation. And then, in the third voicemail — at 11:51, three minutes after he'd called me a sanctimonious prick — he was sobbing. He said, "I don't know what's wrong with them. I don't know what's wrong with me. I don't know how to fix it." And I listened to that voicemail three times and I sat on my bed and I tried to figure out what to do. My wife said, "Call him." My daughter — my eleven-year-old — said, "Dad. Don't." I looked at her. She said, "He's going to need to sit with this. If you call him back tonight, he's going to apologize for two minutes and then he's going to forget it. Make him sit."