From Chaos to Closeness: How I Repaired My Father–Son Bond
I can still remember the exact moment I realised how far I’d come. There I was, perched at the edge of my son’s bed, reading him a chapter of his Alex Rider book. The bedside lamp cast a gentle glow on his face, and he was actually smiling—truly comfortable. It felt like the easiest thing in the world, but months before, I would have been downstairs, glued to the football match, impatiently yelling for him to hurry up. I thought football was more important; I thought I “deserved” it after a hard day’s work.
But that was the old me.
As I read aloud, I caught myself reflecting on the journey. Suddenly, a wave of pride washed over me: not just pride in my son for giving me a second chance, but pride in myself for recognising I had been the problem—and then deciding I could be the solution. It wasn’t an easy shift; it required accountability, patience, and a willingness to change. Yet there I was, in a moment of peace and laughter, living proof that it is possible to rebuild trust after you’ve torn it down.
Owning the Mess I Made
If you read my last post, you know I hit a low point when my son said, “When I’m sad, I only go to Mummy.” That statement felt like a punch to the gut, because it reflected the distance I had created. I’d convinced myself I was still a “great dad,” but my actions—pushing him away in favour of my own wants—said otherwise. Bedtimes had become battle zones, overshadowed by my irritation at missing the start of Liverpool’s Champions League matches. My son picked up on every bit of tension, and it showed in the way he stopped reaching out to me.
But here’s the kicker:
I was the only one who could fix it.
I realised I couldn’t wait for him to “get over it.” Children don’t just bounce back when they’ve been made to feel less important. They might show misbehaviour, withdrawal, or flat-out refusal to engage. None of that changes unless we, the adults, change first. So I had to look in the mirror and say, “Right, mate. You got yourself here, so you need to get yourself out.”
The Power of Apology: Doing It Right
A genuine apology might be one of the hardest things to do as a parent. Sometimes, our pride gets in the way—“I’m the grown-up, why should I apologise?” But children need to see that even we, the so-called ‘adults’, can own our mistakes. Especially if we’ve hurt them, whether emotionally or otherwise.
I didn’t wait until another meltdown at bedtime to say it. In the heat of the moment, everyone’s walls are up. So I chose a neutral, calm time—perhaps after dinner or during a quiet weekend afternoon—and said something along these lines:
“I want to say sorry. I shouldn’t have got mad those nights when I wanted to watch the football. That wasn’t fair on you. It was all my fault, and it won’t happen again.”
No ifs, no buts, no shifting blame. Just a transparent admission that I messed up and an assurance that I was committed to doing better. I didn’t expect him to jump into my arms with gratitude, but that moment planted a seed: Dad is taking responsibility. That alone can be a powerful signal to a child who felt dismissed or unimportant.
Writing My Own ‘Care Plan’
I’ve spent a good chunk of my life working with children and young people in residential care (or child and youth care, if you’re reading from North America). Whenever there’s a persistent challenge—be it aggression, running away, or anxiety—one of our go-to strategies is creating a care plan. A care plan helps you step back from the emotional grind and look at the situation more objectively:
Identify the problem behaviours: What am I doing that’s not working?
Explore triggers or underlying issues: Why am I doing this?
Set clear goals: How do I want to behave differently next time?
Map out practical steps: What specific actions will help me achieve those goals?
So I turned the lens on myself. I asked:
“What am I doing that’s causing tension at bedtime?”
“Why do I let football override my son’s emotional needs?”
“How can I prioritise closeness with my son without sacrificing everything I enjoy?”
The key was shifting from self-blame (“I’m a rubbish dad”) to problem-solving (“Here’s what I need to change”). It’s easier to feel helpless if all you do is dwell on guilt. By creating a plan, I gave myself tangible targets to aim for—small changes I could implement straight away.
Tuning into ‘Shark Music’
In the Circle of Security approach, there’s this concept called “shark music.” It’s a metaphor for the internal soundtrack that starts playing when we sense danger or stress in a parenting situation. If bedtime has historically been a nightmare, even the smallest sign of reluctance from my son can set off my internal dun-dun, dun-dun (like the music from Jaws). My anxiety spikes, my patience snaps, and before I know it, I’m barking orders instead of offering comfort.
The trick is recognising that shark music early, so it doesn’t drag you into an overreaction. If you find yourself getting triggered—by whining, stalling, or repeated questions—pause. Take a slow breath. Ask yourself, “Why does this make me feel threatened or annoyed?” Usually, it’s not about your child. It’s about the story in your head—maybe feeling disrespected, or worrying you’re not in control. Once you’re aware, you can choose a calmer response.
Miscuing and Why Children Push Us Away
One of the hardest parts of healing my father–son bond was facing my son’s rejection after I’d started to change. Just because I’d apologised and resolved to do better didn’t mean he instantly trusted me. If I said, “Let’s read a story,” he might huff, “I don’t want one with you,” or “I only like it when Mummy reads.”
At first, that felt like a dagger to the heart. My ego took a hit. But in the Circle of Security framework, this is often referred to as a mis-cue. He wasn’t really saying, “I hate you, Dad.” He was saying, “I’m not sure if I can trust you with my emotions anymore, so I’m going to protect myself.”
My job was to reassure him: “That’s okay. It’s your choice not to read with me tonight. But I do love our bedtime stories, and I’ll be right here if you change your mind.” Then I’d give him space. Some nights he’d stay quiet, other nights he’d come around. In those moments, the key wasn’t to push or force. It was to remain reliable, calm, and loving—to prove, day after day, that I wasn’t going to shut him down or prioritise something else over him again.
Finding New Ways to Connect
While I waited for him to warm back up to bedtime stories, I looked for other ways to show him I cared. We all know children can be unpredictable—if they feel guarded in one area (like bedtime), it might help to connect in a more neutral space.
For us, that meant playing two-player games on the Nintendo Switch. Specifically, co-operative games—the kind where we work together to solve puzzles or progress through a story. We dove into Lego City (a brilliant option if you haven’t tried it) and found ourselves teaming up to solve missions and laugh at silly mishaps. Instead of competing against each other—where tension can sometimes build—we united against in-game obstacles, celebrating small wins as a team.
It might sound trivial, but those little gaming sessions became a lifeline for our relationship. They reminded both of us that we could have fun together, that I wasn’t just “Grumpy Dad barking orders” but someone who genuinely enjoyed spending time with him. This good energy naturally carried over to bedtime routines. He began to see me as an ally again, not an adversary.
Patience and Persistence: The Bedtime Ritual
Eventually, we circled back to bedtime. I made a commitment to approach it with zero rush, even if that meant missing part of the live match. If I knew Liverpool were playing, I’d say to myself, “I can record it or watch highlights later. My son’s wellbeing comes first.”
That mental shift was enormous. It signalled to my son that I was available—fully, not half-heartedly. When he asked for an extra cuddle or a second story, I listened. I’d gauge his mood; if he was anxious, I’d slow down further. If he was relaxed, we’d share a laugh or chat about his day.
Some nights took longer than I liked. But in those moments, I reminded myself: “This is what matters. This is how you earn trust.” Over time, bedtimes stopped feeling like a battleground. They became sacred again—our quiet time to connect.
The Emotional Hurdles: “I Don’t Want a Story Tonight!”
Sometimes, even after I’d changed, he’d still say, “I don’t want a story. Just go, Dad.” It felt disheartening, especially after I’d been trying so hard. But I learnt to respond gently:
“That’s okay. I understand you might not feel like it now. I’ll be in my room if you change your mind.”
Then I’d wait, quietly reading or tidying. Often, he’d peek out of his room after a few minutes to see if I was still there. If he found me downstairs, glued to a match, that would confirm his fears. But if he found me upstairs, ready to read, that slowly rebuilt his sense of safety. Over time, those “I don’t want a story” nights happened less and less.
The Reward: Reading Alex Rider With Pride
Which brings me back to that night, reading Alex Rider and realising just how different things had become. There was a moment I paused mid-sentence, watching him follow along with curious eyes, and I felt a surge of gratitude. Gratitude for the meltdown that revealed I’d been prioritising the wrong things. Gratitude for the wake-up call that forced me to change. And gratitude that my son found it in his heart to trust me again.
I often share this story with other dads when I run Circle of Security groups, because it’s relatable—it’s real life. We’re normal people with normal weaknesses. We want a moment to ourselves, or we’re desperate not to miss a big match. But those normal desires can clash with our children’s emotional needs if we’re not mindful. The point isn’t to never have “me time,” but to balance our needs with theirs, especially when they’re looking to us for safety.
Final Thoughts: Becoming the Solution
If you’re reading this and you see echoes of your own struggles, here’s what I’d like you to take away:
You can own the damage you’ve done without drowning in shame. It’s entirely possible to say, “I messed up, and I’m sorry,” while also believing you can do better.
An apology means more when it’s backed by action. Show up at bedtime without impatience. Turn the game off, or pause it if you can. Let your child feel they have all of you, not the leftovers.
You don’t fix broken trust with a single gesture. It’s a slow process of rebuilding, one bedtime routine, one conversation, one cuddle at a time.
Miscuing is normal. If your child pushes you away, they might really be testing whether you’ll stay. Let them know you’re there, consistently, even if they reject you initially.
Find multiple points of connection. If bedtime is tense, look for other opportunities—games, bike rides, cooking together—where you can reconnect and have fun.
Patience is everything. Trust takes time to regrow. Persist even when it feels one-sided, because your child’s sense of safety is worth the effort.
Today, my son doesn’t flinch when I come in for a bedtime hug. He doesn’t eye me warily, wondering if I’ll snap. Instead, we chat about our favourite parts of the day, or he’ll recount the plot of the latest chapter we’re reading. Yes, there are still moments of tension—parenting is never a straight line to perfection. But I’ve learnt that showing up consistently is more important than being flawless.
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Thank you for reading, and remember: You’re not stuck as ‘the problem’—you can become the solution.
I really admire how you were able to switch things around to give your son the time he needed. It's amazing how even small changes can rebuild a special bond.
I'm sending you all my best wishes for continued strength as you continue to nurture that special connection
The part about 'Miscuing' was insightful!