I'm Not a Good Man
A short story from Stories from the Collapse
I’m not a good man, not in the way people usually imagine when they hear that phrase. I don’t steal. I don’t hit anyone. I show up to work when I’m supposed to. I say the right things in public and remember names when it matters. Most people would describe me as decent if they had to. Dependable, maybe. Quietly successful in the way that doesn’t invite questions.
The problems only show up when things require effort without reward.
For starters, I cheated on my wife. I don’t usually lead with that because it changes the way people look at you. Once you say it just doesn’t matter what comes next… once it’s out there, they stop hearing the rest of what you say and start deciding what kind of person you are. Still, it belongs here. Leaving it out would turn this into something safer than it deserves to be, and pretending otherwise would make this dishonest in a way I’m not interested in being.
I also avoid my parents. Not because they’re cruel or unloving, but because they take time. Phone calls turn into obligations. Visits stretch longer than planned. They ask questions that require answers I haven’t organized. It’s easier to let weeks pass, then months, then explain it away as being busy.
Another thing, if I’m being honest with myself, is that I’ve wasted most of my talent. Not in a dramatic or tragic way. I didn’t crash and burn or get cut down before my time. I just stopped reaching. I know what I’m capable of, I’ve always known. I have the kind of skills that could build a useful career if I pressed it harder, the kind that could actually grow into something important, solve problems that matter, leave a mark someone else would have to work around. Instead, I settled into work that sits comfortably beneath my skill level. Why? Because I’m comfortable where I’m at. I’m even very good at it. Good enough that no one asks why I’m still here. I learned early on that competence without ambition is comfortable. You can live a long time there without anyone accusing you of failure.
None of these things felt like moral decisions when I made them. They felt practical, efficient, even reasonable. That’s how it usually works.
When I cheated on my wife, I didn’t think of it as betrayal. I told myself I was being thorough. There was history involved, which made it feel less reckless. An old relationship that never quite resolved itself. Loose ends I’d convinced myself were dangerous to leave unattended. So I went to see her.
I flew farther than anyone needs to fly for closure. I took time off work. Told my wife it was a short work trip, nothing unusual, something I’d done before without incident. She didn’t question it. She had no reason to. The woman I was meeting with was engaged by then, she was building something stable where she lived, and I was married, doing the same. That symmetry mattered to me. It made the whole thing feel measured instead of selfish.
We talked for hours. About timing. About who we’d been when things fell apart. About whether life had simply unfolded the wrong way for us. I told myself this was responsibility, confronting something honestly instead of letting it linger. It didn’t stay theoretical.
I won’t pretend it was an accident, and I won’t dress it up as complicated. I didn’t come there for it, exactly, but I don’t think I would have left without it either. There was too much history sitting between us, too many years of wondering what it would feel like again. It was familiar in a way that didn’t need translation, easy in a way that felt earned. We fit together without having to negotiate it, just the way we always had. I remember thinking, not proudly, just plainly, that it was still the best sex I’d ever had. Not because it was new, but because nothing about it was.
Afterward, the clarity returned quickly. We said what we already knew. That it wouldn’t work. That neither of us was willing to upend the lives we’d built. Her career was rooted where she was. Mine couldn’t be moved without turning everything into a mess neither of us wanted to clean up. So she went back to her fiancé, and I went back to my wife.
I told myself that was proof it hadn’t been reckless. That it was contained. That no one had lost anything permanent. That if anything, it had confirmed the choices we’d already made. Honestly, I still believe that most days.
Avoiding my parents follows the same logic, even if I don’t like admitting it. They were good to me. Better than good, really. They showed up, they sacrificed, they paid attention, they did everything you’re supposed to do when you’re trying to give a child a real chance at becoming something. There’s no buried resentment there, no secret grievance I can point to and say this is why. If anything, they deserve far more of me than they get.
When I do see them, I play the part well. I ask the right questions. I smile at the right moments. I listen. Nothing seems wrong from the outside. If you were watching, you’d think everything was fine, and in a way, it is. That’s almost the worst part.
What I can’t stomach is the cost. The hours lost to small talk and updates that don’t change anything. The rituals you perform out of obligation rather than desire. The quiet expectation that your time belongs to them simply because they gave you theirs first. I know how that sounds. I know what it says about me. I just don’t have the bandwidth for it. I never have. Every minute I’m there, I’m aware of what else I could be doing. Not important things, just other things. Things that feel more like mine. It’s selfish. It’s also true.
The harder part is what they still see in me. They remember me clearly, not just who I was, but who I was supposed to become. They watched me grow into my abilities. They recognized them early, and they did everything they could to give me the tools and the freedom to take something real and shape it into whatever I wanted. When I’m with them, I can see that version of myself reflected back at me, intact and unspent. And I can’t stand it.
Because they didn’t fail me. I failed to use what they gave me. And standing in front of people who know that, who can feel the distance between what I am and what I could have been, requires a kind of honesty I’ve spent my life learning how to avoid.
So I keep my distance. I let weeks pass, then months. I tell myself they understand. I tell myself I’ll make time later. It’s easier to love them from afar than to sit across from people who still believe I might do something meaningful with everything they gave me.
Of course this leads right into me wasting my talent, it’s all the same pattern. When it comes down to it there really was never a decision I made to choose the safe and comfortable way. There was no moment where I consciously chose less. It was a series of non-decisions that stacked neatly on top of each other until the shape of my life was set. I learned what I was capable of early enough to feel secure, but not early enough to feel driven. I knew I could do more, but I also knew doing more would require exposure, and exposure brings both failure and success with it. Neither appealed to me. Both felt intrusive, demanding, and uncomfortable in ways I wasn’t interested in dealing with.
So I stayed where I was useful but replaceable. Skilled, but not necessarily threatening. Ambitious enough to be respected, but restrained enough to be left alone. I found a place where effort could be rewarded without being noticed too closely.
I’ve gotten very good at that.
If there’s a pattern here, it’s not cruelty. It’s avoidance. I choose the path that minimizes disruption. I pick stability over honesty, comfort over clarity, maintenance over risk. Not because I’m afraid of consequences, but because I’m tired of pretending they’re worth it. I don’t think I’m unique in this. I think I’m just more willing to say it plainly.
No one ever forced me into these choices. There was no dramatic moment where I crossed a line and couldn’t come back. Every decision made sense at the time. Each one solved a short term problem without asking too much in return.
That’s the dangerous part. You don’t become a bad man by doing one unforgivable thing. You become one by making a thousand reasonable compromises and never examining the shape they form together.
I don’t wake up feeling guilty. Guilt implies a desire for absolution. This isn’t that. This is an accounting. I’m not a good man. But I’m not confused about how I got here. And if this sounds like honesty, that’s probably the worst thing about it.