“Let me tell you what really happened”

We sat an arm’s length away in the confines of litigation. So close, yet still so divided. The interactions were always with at least a degree of separation, often much more. You stared at me with such contempt. You tried desperately to intimidate me with your eyes, a pursuit that forced me to quell the laughter within.

It was not why we were there that I found funny. I understood the real pain you must have felt—to have lost your child. I understood the generational trauma and abusive life lived as you told your story to our degree of separation. I listened intently and pieced together a life lived in full. I sat with sympathy, though I am sure you would never know it. I understood the plight of your child. I understood his pain better than you could probably ever know. If I could have ever shared my story, you might understand how similar he and I were.

It was not the emotion of it all I found funny. Watching you struggle to grasp the totality of the moment, often teary-eyed, I understood that pressure and confusion. Our degree of separation sought to string your life’s mistakes and poor choices out before you, disregarding and avoiding anything redeeming—the same string your degree of separation sought upon us.

What I did find funny, and honestly frustrating, was your repeated preface: “Let me tell you what really happened.” Over and over the phrase repeated to explain away your actions. Everything is always someone else’s fault. A life without agency creates a perception of victimhood—a life without responsibility or control. The world always happening to you and never you to the world. Residing so near to the frustration and humor was sadness. I find lives without agency saddening, believing you have no control over your own life. What I found funny was you thinking such a stare from such a person without control could possibly intimidate.

I admittedly sat with anticipation, and an inkling of sorrow, for the moment of truth: the piles of texts, pictures, and videos that would shatter the false narrative of your “innocent” son. Instead, I watched you excuse away his every action. The montage of guns, money, and drugs were not enough. Your child doing everything you said he never did, right before your eyes, posted by him, on his phone, with him clearly visible. It was always everyone else around him. You told him continuing to steal and getting arrested could place his and others’ lives in danger. You admitted that in any other case, someone robbing a store at gunpoint would be dangerous—but not when done by your son. The delusion so severe, even your degree of separation sat in bewilderment and disbelief.

There we all sat, you filled with anger and rage, your expressions and statements making such beliefs clear—calling us things without an inkling of understanding. Through eyes without agency, there are only others to blame. I wished so desperately in that moment to shed the separation: to speak directly to you, and you to me; to help dispel the perception that we were such heartless people, as you described us—that we were not soulless murderers without a care. I wished only to explain to you how impactful that night had been, for us all. That what we wanted in that moment was what you had wanted—that he had been taken away safely, without harm. I wanted only to help bridge some gap in the hopes there might be some moving forward, some healing. That you might know it was not our desire to hurt your son. That we ourselves believed he might hurt us. That it did affect each and every one of us.

I realize that it is likely me living in a delusion—to think that my words would mean anything to you, that my words might penetrate that deeply held and created delusion of your perfect son: a son only led astray by others, without an inkling of choice. That you would be willing to listen and honestly accept the realities of the world, and with it, the consequences of your actions and his. That we cannot control the world, but we do control how we act and react within it. That our actions directly and indirectly affect those around us. That with that, your actions affected your son, your son’s actions affected us, and our reactions affected us all. I think it is I living in a delusion to think my words might now shatter your decades without agency—that in the most catastrophic moment in your life, you might be willing to accept responsibility. I guess delusion can be yet another thing we have in common.

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This first appeared in The Havok Journal on September 25, 2025.

Jake Smith is a law enforcement officer and former Army Ranger with four deployments to Afghanistan.

As the Voice of the Veteran Community, The Havok Journal seeks to publish a variety of perspectives on a number of sensitive subjects. Unless specifically noted otherwise, nothing we publish is an official point of view of The Havok Journal or any part of the U.S. government.