Photo Essay: Postcards from my Kids. Volume Three.

Several of my grandchildren were born out of wedlock. Which has always disturbed me. All of them now are legitimized by marriage, thank heavens. 
And somehow I've come to realize as the years have slipped into a blur that it's all Amy's fault. I'm making a conscious effort to reverse the Torkildson family history that blames me for all the wrongs and suffering. I'm overcompensating, sure, but there is truth in my exagerations. 
She always had, and still possesses, an animal magnetism when it comes to sexual attraction. She appears not to know how much she interests men. It's a sort of wanton innocence that I used to find appealing, but now find very troubling. When we lived in Minneapolis we both worked at Fingerhut Telemarketing. She told me one day, out of the blue, that when she went in to work she always took off her wedding band. At the time, I didn't think much about it. Why didn't I get mad at her? I should have. But at the time I was keeping so much anger and disappointment bottled up inside of me that one more insult to swallow didn't seem that big of a deal. You see, I was supposed to be a world famous comedian -- but instead I was a telemarketer. Of cheap trashy kitsch. 
I like to think that I have worked through most of my anger issues now, at the ripe old age of 66 -- but this afternoon, as I was ladling tomato sauce over angel hair pasta for the luncheon I serve people gratis here in my building during the quarantine, I spilled a bit on the floor, which I had just mopped. Instead of shrugging it off with an "Oh well," I went ballistic for twenty seconds -- dashing the wooden spoon into the sink, causing it to splinter, and swearing like a fiend while my hands literally shook with rage. What was that all about? For twenty uncontrollable seconds I was in such a homicidal rage over this trivial accident that if I could have split into two persons, I would have murdered myself. 
I don't get it. It makes me both sad and frightened. 
Despite the nice things the kids say on these postcards, I sometimes still wonder if I should have been allowed to ever become a father.