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The pain of a world in which his father didn’t exist was unbearable. He wanted to retreat to a time before he knew his father, a time when he was buffered from the world and its sorrows by his mother, spared any sound but the drumbeat of her heart, a time when memory had not existed, and so loss could not.
Yes, he could plan, he must plan, but he had to take into account that fate—or God, or the universe—had its own plans; it was indifferent to his plan.
It was silly to worry about pleasing or displeasing others with his choices; life was hard enough without such meaningless concerns.
