The busy writer

There was once a very dedicated and busy writer whose name was Max Osment. He always used to write the bestselling books which were translated into several different languages and were sold the world over. If he’d complete one book, he would start another one. He never spent time with his family. Max had an office. Whenever the writer would come home from work, a huge crowd of journalists would be standing there curious to know and shouting “what will be the title of your next book”? Escaping from the crowd of journalists, he would enter his house tired. When his children used to ask “dad! Will you take a break from work tomorrow”?

His answer always used to be a sad and stressed-out no. One day, as it was Sunday, max’s unexpected holiday, max asked his little ones if they would like to go to the park to play. But his little ones said, “no, sorry dad.” “We are a little more comfortable with mom ‘cause she is always around so we trust her more than you because you are never with us.” At that point in time, max understood how important spending time with his family was. But it was too late. Damage once happened in one’s brain can never be repaired. His children had already started loving him less. And from that day onwards he had less or maybe no people to love him.