One would think it a great gift to have your child grow up to be a writer. To have an insight into the internal life of your child which other parents are not privy. To see what gets them passionate and how they envision the future or re-vision your past.
It must be an immense blessing indeed to see their upbringing, in which you were instrumental, metamorphose into a splendid and unique vision of the world.
There must be no greater gift indeed.
But that is not what the parents of Sophocles thought when they read Oedipus Rex.
They were not best pleased.