"I'm not mad. Don't explain yourself. I don't care. What do you want me to say, that I'm disappointed? Yeah, I am. But, mostly, I'm just tired, man. I'm done. I am just done."
And you are done. You feel so done and there's nothing you can do. There's nothing you can bring yourself to want to do.
How? How could your baby boy have turned into such a monster?
All the secrets, the lies, the angry, sharp-edged accusations. The hatred. It's not even that which kills you inside. No. it's the fact that you can't bring yourself to care.