(Note: Writing yesterday's post left me raw and broken. I did not want to continue today, but I have to complete this journey. Apologies if this post seems stylistically different from others. I had to rely more heavily on other resources to clearly articulate my thoughts.)

Continued from Part 1

Shifting The Focus to What Matters Most: The Innocent Victims

Sometimes when I am drowning in the depth of my turmoil, there doesn't seem much to be grateful for. I know that's not true, but it feels that way. One thing that stands out; however, is that thanks to police intervention, there weren't actual direct victims of my son's crime. He was ensnared by their attempts to prevent a crime. Had there been real people harmed by his actions the situation now would be even more unbearable. I still worry that it might happen again and that this time we might not be so lucky. For now, I will leave that possibility in the column of imagined fears. That doesn't mean, though, that there weren't innocent victims. Everyone I love has, in one way or another, been collateral damage in the wake of his delusions and paranoia.

I've spent so much time crying, questioning, and trying to make sense of everything that's happened. But in the midst of all this, my focus has shifted. It's no longer just about him and what he's going through-it's about them. His wife and children, my children and grandchildren, my wife, friends who have known and loved him. They are the ones left picking up the pieces, the ones most impacted by his actions, and the ones I can't stop worrying about. They didn't ask for this. They didn't cause this. And yet, they're the ones who will bear the brunt of the consequences. Each one shares the same hollow sadness, shock, and anger. Yet each has had their own unique personal response.

Daughter in Love; Not Just Daughter in Law

I can't even begin to imagine what she is feeling right now, his wife. I feel like I lost my son. In one moment, when the police showed up unexpectedly at her door, she lost her husband, her best friend, the father of her children, her partner, her family's provider, the person she imagined growing old with. If I feel this overwhelmed, I can't begin to imagine what she is going through. She's at the center of the storm, trying to hold her family together while everything around her falls apart. How is she possibly holding everything together? Forced to live only in her role as devoted mom with no space to let her guard down, fall apart, mourn the upheaval of her world and her dreams except in those rare moments when the babies are asleep. Her responsibilities kept her busy before this; now the task is Herculean.

She amazes me. She has met every challenge so far toe to toe, head on, unwavering. She has maintained as much normalcy as possible for her children, kept the lights on and the bills paid, sought legal counsel both for herself and for my son, and persevered with her full-time academic load – all with a calm and determined demeanor. She has set boundaries with our family when necessary and leaned into the love and support of her parents and siblings. And yet I wonder about her inner monologue and worry about her. I was shocked when my ex-wife said "well, she's her parents' problem now". What??? Some people may not value familial bonds forged by choice or marriage, but that has never defined our family structure. Family is family. My wife and I were both adopted. We have chosen and built our family every day with intention, purpose, and commitment. The words "step" and "in law" have no meaning for us. She is no less my daughter for having married into the relationship. And so I am concerned.

Has she eaten today? Was there a chance to take a much-needed nap? How does she close her eyes and go to sleep knowing that for years she unwittingly slept next to someone capable of these actions? What does she say when their son asks where Daddy is? How does she explain this nightmare to their children, to herself, to anyone? I think about the looks she must get from neighbors, the whispers, the questions she has no good answers for. How dare they publish her home address in the newspaper when they are reporting the story? Audiences love shocking and invasive news, but there are real people involved in these stories. People who are hurting and struggling. She must feel so alone, so isolated, and yet, she doesn't have the luxury of breaking down the way I have. She has to stay strong for the kids, for herself, for a future that must feel impossibly uncertain. I picture her going through the motions-getting the kids ready for school, grocery shopping, trying to keep the house running as if nothing has changed. But everything has changed. Every routine, every small moment of normalcy must feel like it's on the verge of breaking under the weight of what's happened.

She is hurt, angry, disappointed, and more. Of course. Rightfully so. But even in facing her own storm of feelings, I have never heard her wish my son ill. Her plans for the future now revolve exclusively around her children, but even then, she clearly wants him to be healthy and whole for himself and his own future. And yet, as if the original circumstances were not enough, she has become the focus of his paranoid delusions and desire for vengeance. He has twisted her love and support into accusations and insane diabolical schemes to destroy him. He blames her for his choices when, in reality, she had no idea what was going on. Yet another level of pain and heartbreak.

As much as I've been consumed by my own emotions-crying, grieving, worrying-I can't help but think about how much worse it must be for her. This isn't just a painful chapter in someone else's story; it's her life, her marriage, her family. How does she cope with the betrayal, the sadness, the fear of what might come next? How does she explain the situation-now or in the future- to her children? Does she tell them the truth, or does she try to shield them from it, hoping they're too young to understand? How does she carry the weight of being both mother and father to their children while trying to hold herself together? It's a burden no one should have to bear alone. And yet, I'm sure she feels alone. Even when surrounded by people who love her. How could she not? She has to know that this isn't her fault, but how could she not internalize some of that blame? Society is cruel in that way, always looking for someone to hold accountable, even when the blame is misplaced. If I could give her one thing, it would be the certainty that she is not at fault. The confidence that she has done the best she could, and that it is good enough. She is simply an innocent victim in a tragic story. The Grandchildren: Imagining Their Pain

And their children-what do they even know about what's happening? Do they even understand the gravity of what's happening, or are they simply aware that something is terribly wrong? Are they scared, confused, angry? I wonder if they ask about him, if they cry for him, if they look for him despite everything. I don't know which option is worse-if they miss him tremendously or if, in their youthful resiliency, they have moved on to a new reality without him where they are already forgetting. These questions haunt me, not because I think I can answer them but because I can't. I can only imagine how this chaos has turned their young lives upside down, how it might shape them in ways they don't yet understand. Even if they can be shielded from the pain now, the inevitable lurks in the future. The story will eventually come out, and it will hurt them. They're completely innocent in all of this, yet they're the ones most vulnerable to its ripple effects.

Reflecting on His Family's Challenges

My heart breaks for his wife and children. They didn't ask for any of this. They didn't choose to be caught in the middle of their father's paranoia and delusions or the fallout from his actions. The thought of their confusion, their sadness, is enough to break me all over again. They don't deserve this reality and yet here they are, living through the consequences of choices they had no part in making, whether they understand them fully or not. Nothing anyone does will ever change that. Their lives are irrevocably altered, and no amount of love or forgiveness will ever set this right.

The Birthday Party: A Mirror of the Past

My grandson had a birthday recently. He turned 3. I wasn't sure if I should go to his birthday party. I debated it over and over, weighing the potential for emotional fallout against the importance of being there for his family. Is our presence supportive or just a painful symbol of what they have lost? Do they want to see grandpa or am I just a reminder that their father is not there? In the end, I went, because how could I not? His wife and children have already lost so much-they've had to face more than anyone should ever have to, and I didn't want to add to their burden by staying away. But I wasn't prepared for what I felt when I saw my grandson. It almost killed me.

I've always loved that he looks just like his father did at that age. But at the party, the resemblance was so striking that it hit me like a physical blow. For a moment, I couldn't breathe. I stood there, watching him blow out his candles, smiling and laughing with his friends, and all I could see was his father-the way he used to be before the paranoia took hold, before the choices that shattered so many lives. It was like being transported back to a version of him I had almost forgotten, a version I've been mourning for what feels like an eternity. I wanted to take his tiny hand and start over again as if I had a time machine. This time I would get it right and make sure none of this happened.

It wasn't just the physical resemblance that got to me-it was the innocence. His son is so young, so full of life and possibility, untouched by the weight of everything that's been happening around him. He has no idea how his world has been altered, how his future has been shaped by forces completely outside his control. But he will. Watching him, I felt an overwhelming mix of emotions: love, sadness, guilt, anger. Love for the child he is, sadness for what he will one day have to face, guilt for not being able to do more, and anger at his father for putting him in this position.

Feeling Powerless to Help

The hardest part is knowing there's so little I can do for them. I'm not in a position to swoop in and fix things, to offer the kind of support they really need either emotionally or financially. All I can do is love them, hoping that they have the strength and resources to weather this storm. It's an overwhelming sense of helplessness, knowing that the people who need the most support right now are the ones I can least directly help. But even so, they've become my main concern. My energy, my thoughts, my prayers-they're all with his wife and children. My heart wants to save my son and erase the pain that I feel. But my moral compass points to his family. It feels right, and it feels justifiable. They didn't create this situation. If anyone deserves to be prioritized, it's them. I've struggled with guilt over this shift in focus. Part of me wonders if I'm abandoning him by redirecting my attention to his family. He would certainly argue that I am. But the truth is, he made his choices. His paranoia, his delusions, his actions-they're what led to this. I can't undo that, and I can't change where he is now. But his wife and children didn't make those choices. They're the collateral damage, and if I can find any purpose or direction in this mess, it's in doing what little I can to care for and about them. If I could just move past this grief and paralysis to be fully present for their needs.

The Weight of Helplessness

Helplessness is a heavy thing. It's not just the absence of control-it's the absence of hope, of clarity, of any path forward. I feel like I'm staring at a maze with no exit, turning corners over and over again only to find myself back where I started. I don't know which direction to go, and every step feels harder than the last.

His delusions have built walls so high that I can't climb them, no matter how much I want to. Every time I've tried, I've been met with resistance, suspicion, and accusations that cut deeper than I'd like to admit. I don't know if I have the strength to keep trying, especially when it feels like it's doing more harm than good.

So, I shift my focus entirely to his family-to do whatever I can to support his wife and children. But even that feels complicated. I don't want to overstep or insert myself into their lives in a way that feels intrusive or unwelcome. They have their own pain to process, their own struggles to navigate, and I don't want to add to their burden. All I want is to be there for them if they want it or need it, but even that feels like a delicate balance I'm not sure I know how to manage.

And then there's the part of me that just wants to let go of all of it, to step back completely and focus on myself. I've spent a lifetime keeping people out and being selfishly driven towards my own goals. But that is not the person I want to be at this point in my life. I have fought to redefine myself in recent years and that means I can't just put it in a box and move on like nothing has happened. I have to heal. But that feels impossible, too. Unfamiliar and uncomfortable. I may have once had the ability to just walk away, but that is no longer part of who I am. How do you walk away from someone you care about, even when their choices and their reality have become impossible to bear? How do you stop worrying about the people left in the wreckage of their actions? How do you move on when the weight of everything is still pressing down on your chest, making it hard to even breathe?

The Weight of Uncertainty

Uncertainty is its own kind of grief. It's the grief of not knowing what's coming next, of feeling like you're constantly bracing for impact but never knowing when or where the blow will land. There's a hurricane coming but you don't know how bad it will be, when it will come, or where exactly it will make landfall. It's exhausting, carrying that weight every day, knowing that at any moment, everything could change again. I wake up every morning with a sense of dread, wondering what new challenge or revelation the day will bring. I go to bed every night with my mind racing, replaying every detail of what's happened so far and trying to prepare myself for what might happen next, each new day adding more to the recurring nightly thoughts and dreams.

The Unending Ache

I thought the tears might slow down after the birthday party, but they haven't. If anything, they've come more frequently, as if seeing his son opened a floodgate I didn't even know existed. I cry for the father he's lost, for the future he may never have, for the innocence that might one day be replaced by the weight of understanding. I cry because I can't undo what's happened, because I can't fix this. And my inability to move forward only perpetuates the trauma.

Watering the Tree of Marriage with My Tears

I wrote a few weeks ago about how I see love as a tree that is nurtured equally by both parties. Right now, it feels like I can't offer much sunlight or water to my marriage. Just my knot of raw and painful emotions. But this situation hasn't just impacted me—it's deeply affected my wife in ways I both see and suspect are hidden beneath her calm exterior. She has been my steadfast partner through it all, but I know the emotional toll this has taken on her.

From the beginning, she has been my rock, offering a safe space for me to vent my frustration, sadness, and confusion. She has held me when I cried and yelled at me to keep us both alive when I wanted to swerve into oncoming traffic. She has walked the dogs and paid the bills and made sure I ate. But that role as caretaker comes with its burdens. She has had to balance being there for me while managing her own feelings about what's happening. She tries not to impose her own challenges over my grief, but she is a human being. We're both juggling at full tilt. Sometimes one of us drops a ball and the other steps in to catch it, but in this situation, there have been moments when we both lost a ball at the same time. Thankfully those incidents have been few, but they do happen. My wife is an incredibly empathetic person, and I can tell that she feels the ripple effects of this situation just as deeply as I do.

The strain shows in small ways-her sighs when she thinks I'm not looking, the faraway look she gets when she's deep in thought, the way she seems just a bit quieter these days, when she obsesses over some trivial detail that normally wouldn't matter. She's had to contend with her own emotions about how this has impacted our family, the people we care about, and even the trajectory of our lives.

There have been moments when I've caught her looking at me with concern, as if she's trying to figure out how to lift the weight off my shoulders while still carrying her own. She has been patient with me when I've been consumed by my thoughts, but I know it hasn't been easy for her. She's had to remind me to shower, to sleep, to take care of myself, all while making sure she's holding herself together.

One of the things I admire most about her is her ability to see beyond the immediate pain and look toward the future. To find gratitude for seemingly little things I take for granted. She reminds me that while we can't change the past, we can choose how we respond to it. She encourages me to focus on what we can do to support his family and each other, even when the situation feels impossible.

At the same time, I know this has shaken her sense of security, her feeling of belonging. So much of his anger fixates on her presence in our lives. Their relationship was rocky at first. What teenager wants a new parent that requires you to do chores, captivates your father's attention, or holds you accountable? But they had both worked so hard to move past that and build something valuable to both of them. Before all of this they talked regularly, and I could see that he appreciated her wisdom and love. When he got out of jail, they spent hours every day on the phone. But then the delusions took over. Anger and jealousy that we made a car payment instead of sending him money for his attorney. Warped memories of a Christmas where she spent thousands on the other kids and bought him only a pair of socks. Allegations that the purposefully starved him. If you've ever met my wife, you would know immediately how ridiculous and impossible these stories are. How much she genuinely and sincerely cares. But they have taken a toll, made her question her own choices, required her to set boundaries she never wanted to put in place.

Despite everything, she continues to show up for me, for our family, and for herself. Her resilience amazes me, and her love sustains me. But I also know she needs space to process her own emotions, and I've tried to be mindful of that. I don't want her to feel like she has to carry both of our burdens alone. One silver lining in the storm is that we have talked more than we ever have before. We have consciously negotiated our values and decisions together. We both recognize that while we are hurting, we are stronger together than either of us ever realized and more clearly focused on our shared vision for our future.

It All Comes Down to Family

Our family is vast and sometimes difficult to explain. Between us there are 4 marriages and 7 biological children. 2 "step" children neither one of us are biologically related to from previous spouses. A countless number of informally adopted children we have collected along the way. Friends of our kids that needed a couch for a night that stayed for years. Men and women that served in the military with our kids and needed a place to recuperate from their battles. Bandmates and fellow football players. Our children's former boyfriends or girlfriends. We don't differentiate. They are our kids. And to each other, they are just brothers and sisters.

I overheard my daughter the other day trying to explain it to a friend who wanted to know why she was Jewish and her brother was not. "Oh, we're not biologically related. He's my stepbrother but we don't think that way…. He's also my best friend…. Yeah, we look more alike than any of the other kids so it's confusing… Wait til his mom legally adopts me-then we'll be related by law in 2 ways…." It sounds crazy but it's just how we are. Sometimes there's friction over the past and genetics, but generally they would defend each other with their lives. Each of them is a unique individual, shaped by their own experiences, personalities, and stages of life. They have been through love, loss, life, and death together, but this situation, as painful and overwhelming as it has been for me, is hitting each of them in profoundly different ways. They are all processing this in their own time and their own manner. Watching them grapple with it is one of the hardest things I've ever had to do as a parent. Although they are mostly united in their overall perspective, nobody saw this coming.

The Kids with Kids

For my older children, this has stirred up a storm of emotions that are as complex as they are raw. Being older, they have a more nuanced understanding of the situation. They've lived enough life to see the broader picture and grasp the gravity of what has happened. They understand what it means to be married and place your trust and faith in your partner unequivocally. How terrifying it would be to wake up one morning and have that whole reality overturned. As parents, they have their own additional fears-that something like this could happen to them or their children, that you have no control over your children's choices, that all you can do is do your best and hope for the best, that sometimes your best doesn't seem anywhere near enough. This layer of awareness brings a deep sense of disappointment and sadness as well as a fair degree of outright anger—anger at him for his choices, at the situation for the pain it has caused, and maybe at me, that the family challenges we have struggled to overcome will now be passed on to another generation.

They don't always say it, but I can see it in their eyes and hear it in their voices. This has been a reminder of other difficult times in our family's history. Old wounds have been reopened, and some of the pain they felt as children seems to have resurfaced. Rationally, they know I didn't cause this, but there is still pain and resentment over choices I made earlier in life that might have charted a different course for all of us. Their anger is understandable, but it's still painful to witness or hear. It's heartbreaking to think that this situation is not only causing new pain but also dredging up old hurts they thought they had left behind.

The Ones That Are Here

Some of our kids live in other cities. We stay in touch over the phone, and love knows no distance. But it is understandably different for the ones that live near us, that see us every day or every few days. They have a unique relationship because they are so close in age-their friends and social circles intertwine, and their lives are woven together in many ways.

Their overwhelming reactions revolved around shock and disbelief. Perhaps more than the others, these kids felt the most betrayed. Given their similarity in age, it was as if his actions were somehow a statement about them all. One shared with us conversations that he and his brother had years ago where they confided in each other their dreams about having their own families someday. His anger that his brother had achieved that goal and then just thrown it all away inspired a palpable, very personal anger. Another has been taken back to the fear and absence of control we experienced when JC died. This situation has hit them like a tidal wave-all they can see is the potential loss of yet another sibling, and they will do anything to preserve their relationship in any form. They understand and support the boundaries and limits I have had to set. Yet those choices leave them feeling burdened with the weight of being the only sibling left who will actively engage with my son. I see them struggling to preserve their own tranquility in the face of ongoing communication where they are now the only outlet for my son's delusions and paranoia. Yet another child is particularly sensitive, always the type to feel emotions deeply. He is deeply empathetic and connects quietly to the pain we are all feeling. Sometimes he comes over just to sit and do normal things. Clean up, play with the animals, watch TV-sensing that just his quiet presence is a much-needed blanket to our pain. Another, always rational and level-headed, tries to offer us advice and healthy suggestions for taking care of ourselves. I see a newer member of our family trying to fill the void by making sure that mundane household chores get done so we don't have to worry about them. I am particularly grateful because otherwise we might not have taken the garbage out since this happened.

Overall, the local kids have been focused more on us. Perhaps they are angry at me for being so affected by it and having to step in and be more like parents than kids. I don't know, honestly, I have been lost in my own struggle. But I notice them and worry about how they are doing. The comfort here is knowing that they are there for each other. I know they are not struggling alone, even if I have not been able to do much for them. That only adds to the guilt I already feel.

Navigating Their Differences

As a parent, it's a challenge to support each of them in the way they need, especially when I'm still processing my own emotions. They're all such different people, and what works for one doesn't work for another. For my older children, I try to offer space and understanding. I've learned that they don't always want advice—they just want someone to listen. I've had to remind myself not to take their anger or frustration personally. They're not mad at me; they're mad at the situation. For my younger children, I try to provide reassurance and stability although, in truth, they are the ones providing that to me. I want them all to know that while things feel uncertain now, they're all still loved, still safe, and still part of a family that will weather this storm together.

What breaks my heart the most is knowing that this situation is shaping them in ways I can't fully control. It's forcing them to confront emotions and questions that no one should have to face, especially not as young adults. I worry about how this will affect their relationships, their sense of trust, and their views on family. I answer their questions as honestly as I can. I hope this blog gives them insight into the complicated terrain in my head and heart. Even while I am hurting for my son, my children give me hope. They're resilient, compassionate, and brave in ways that inspire me every day.

As we move forward, my goal is to be the parent they need me to be—someone who listens, supports, and loves them unconditionally. Someone who honestly looks in the mirror and wrestles with questions and realizations I don't want to face without running away. I can't fix everything for them, but I can walk beside them on this journey, offering them my love as they find their own path to healing. In the end, I believe this experience, as painful as it is, will make us stronger as a family. It's teaching us the importance of empathy, communication, and leaning on each other in times of need. And while the road ahead won't be easy, I'm grateful to have my children by my side, reminding me every day of the power of love and perseverance. They are the reason I get out of bed and try to face the world every day.

The Power of Friendship

Even my friends have been affected by this crisis, though in ways that are unique to each relationship. Initially I didn't want anyone to know what had happened. I was embarrassed and didn't want to draw further attention. But I realized that not only could I not get through it without their help. I simply don't have the energy to put forth a façade. Most have responded to my story, not with disgust or horror directed at me, but with kindness and concern, offering a listening ear or a shoulder to lean on. Their support has been invaluable. Some friends have struggled with what to say or how to help. They want to be there for me but aren't sure how to navigate the intricacies of the situation. Others have been more vocal, expressing their own anger or confusion about what's happened, which can sometimes feel overwhelming.

There have also been moments where I've felt the quiet distance from certain friends—those who don't know how to approach the situation or who may judge it from afar. It's a painful reminder that not everyone will stand by you in life's darkest moments. I've also seen how this situation has tested the resilience of my friendships. I've stopped caring about what strangers or acquaintances think. Until you've lived through something like this, you really can't understand its complexity.

Some relationships have grown stronger, forged in the fire of shared pain and understanding. Others have faltered, revealing cracks I didn't know were there. It's been a bittersweet experience, but one that has ultimately shown me who I can truly rely on. But the friends who have stayed—who have shown up with unwavering support—have reminded me of the power of true friendship. They've helped me find strength when I felt weakest, offering perspective and hope when I couldn't find it on my own. They have also given me truths I didn't want to see and called me out when I tried to indulge my self-pity. I'm not historically known to take criticism well, but it has been a necessary breath of fresh air. The most surprising moments, though, have come from my children's friends-especially those that were close to my son in middle school and high school. One impressive young man messages my wife every few days to check on her and comes by to just sit on the porch with me. Sometimes there is simply silence-like fishing but without the fish. I have no words to describe how much peace and comfort those experiences have brought me.

Letting Go of Control

If there's one thing this situation has taught me, it's that control is an illusion. I can't control my son's actions, his thoughts, or his decisions or anyone's responses to the situation. I can't control the consequences of those actions or the way they ripple out to affect everyone around him. And I can't control how this story will end for any of us. Letting go of that illusion of control has been one of the hardest lessons I've ever had to learn. I am used to being the one who fixes everything-literally and figuratively. But it's also been one of the most necessary pieces of this puzzle.

Letting go doesn't mean I've stopped caring. It doesn't mean I've given up hope that he can find his way back to himself. But it does mean accepting that his journey is his own, and I can't walk it for him. The same is true for my family and friends. We are all navigating this river simultaneously alone and yet all together. I have the need to focus on what I can do-offering support to his wife and children, taking care of my own mental health, building stronger relationships with my wife, children, and grandchildren. In doing so, we find ways to move forward, even when it feels impossible. I've never gauged my success by money, accomplishment, or achievement, but I have been somewhat blind to the value of connection. I always saw my role as the benevolent provider and protector, set apart from everyone else and self-sufficient. Now I am beginning to see the ebb and flow of love and care in relationships. In my son's loss of connection to reality, I am beginning to find connection to the people I love and the world around me.