Nicolas,

Let me begin by saying that I sat down at my desk to write you a letter of congratulations, but found myself stumped as how to continue beyond repeating the commendation that you’ve heard a hundred times and more by now. I’ve found it difficult to put into words what I’ve been trying to say since the Globes, and in doing so, realised that the thoughts I’ve stumbled over again and again have been rolling slowly through my mind like a fog, unspoken for some time. Nicolas, these words unsaid precede the earning of your nomination, the seeking of treatment, the birth of your children. They were lingering on the tip of my tongue when you finished school, after your mother and I watched you struggle with your courses for years and witnessed the light in your eyes extinguished after every poor mark, every crushing defeat to your fragile morale. My pride remained wholly unexpressed when I saw that light reignite as you took to the theatre, a passion stoked from a quiet smolder into a tremendous balefire from the moment your feet strode across the stage. I was witness to both of your births, Nicolas - first into our world, and then into one entirely of your own - and I was as about as useless heralding in the second as I was the first. However the pride I have in you, that I felt as a spectator to both events, is unmatched.

Unlike my father to me, I’ve not withheld how much I love you or how proud I am of you. There is no unspoken implication when the words are so easily and beautifully expressed. I encourage you to be as (or more) open in sharing your love with your own children as I was with my own. There is nothing that can prepare you for the love a parent feels for their children. Try as I did to offer you advice in anticipation of the twins, there is little I could have said that would have properly captured the all-consuming, maddening, and addicting feeling that was to come. It alters the love you thought you had for everything else, it knocks from their pedestals your every other priority. It was why you sought treatment after your relapse, Nicolas. I understand that you are burdened with a disease I’ve only been witness to and never experienced, but I beg you not to isolate yourself, not to suffer alone. The courage it takes to seek help is estimable and my son, you are nothing if not lionhearted in your arduous journey to recovery and I admire you for it. It is not the darkest hour, the fall furthest from grace that makes a man, but the moment he chooses to accept his situation and make something of it, that makes him a great one.

Nicolas, you are a great man. Your mother and I watched the Golden Globes from our bedroom, the very room that you and your sisters frequented all too often in chasing each other round the house, from one end to the other. We gripped hands when your category was announced. We hugged and we shouted when your name was called, and we struggled to listen to your speech as the calls came in - your sisters, cousins, aunts and uncles, friends and assorted family - all congratulating you, laughing and crying, sharing your triumphant moment with one another on the other side of the ocean. Nicolas, if you could have heard the joy in their voices, seen the tears shed from the sense of satisfaction we felt on your behalf, you would have never once doubted the love this family has for you. You’ve felt ashamed of your errors but Nicolas, I swear to you that not a single one of us thought of it. We thought of you, of how much we love you, how proud we are of you, how ecstatic we are for your success and your accomplishments.

I struggle still to accurately express how much you are loved, but know that you are loved without conditions and without terms. I congratulate you on your success as an artist, a man, and a father, but I love you not for being any of those things, but for simply being my son. I am so very proud of you, Nicolas, for simply being.

Love, Dad.