Love Child

Jules was conceived in South Beach. His mom and I were in love. He was a love child, and he is loved by our friends and family. Connie had her doubts initially as to whether she should have him, but it didn't take long before she decided to do so; I, on the other hand, couldn't be happier. Ever since I had my firstborn Stephan, I always wanted the opportunity to have another child. 

Back then, it was me and not the mom who didn't want a child in my life, but that all changed the minute his mom decided to do so. 

With Stephan, as it is the case with some fathers, I felt like my "freedom" would end and that it wasn't fair to bring a child into the mess we had made of our lives. Besides, I was afraid because she was already in her forties. That all changed gradually, and when I saw him emerge from his mom's womb, I fell head over heals for him. A few days old, he smiled at me and that is one of the most beautiful gifts life has ever bestowed upon me. Since day one, Stephan and I were inseparable, he changed me immensely, made me more responsible, less self-centered. 

His mom Beth had had another child, ten years earlier with another man, and so I had had with him my first parenting skills polished. I thought I loved him like a son, since I got him very young, until I had a son; it's not that I don't love my stepson, I do, but my son was a whole different ballgame. I never knew love like that could exist. 

When Jules was born, his brother was already seven years old. This time around, the mom was ten years younger than me, a beautiful girl who had never had a child, with whom I wanted to start life anew. In many ways, I kind of see her as I was back then: afraid of what the world might mean with a child in my life, maybe feeling unready for it. We all go through those uncertain phases, doubting our capacity to love, wanting freedom over commitment. In the end, there are no right or wrong choices, just uplifting and daring moves or stagnation. 

With Stephan, my worst fears came alive the day I was told he was diagnosed with autism. Little did his mom know what that meant and the first burst of anger was quietly manifested at the fact that this woman was so ignorant, as she casually informed me of it. As I heard the news, I started crying. I remember holding him in my arms and crying. Then I decided to change the world around him so that he had all the possibilities he could possibly have in order to lessen his ordeal. Little did I know how ignorant I was too. 

It wasn't his ordeal I had to lessen; it was the way I saw things that were up for review. My perspective was in disarray. It wasn't about changing him; it was about changing myself. It wasn't about teaching him about the world I lived in but instead learning all about the wonderful world he inhabited. It wasn't about expecting the world; it was about managing expectations. It was, in the end, from the very beginning, about him, not me. 

Of course, you're rarely as enlightened, and I'd be lying to myself and to others if I said that there are no voices of doom in the midst. The darkest prognosis for me had been, not having a father in my life and growing up with an overprotective mother: it was ironic that I, who hadn't had a relationship with my own father, now was destined to not have one with my son. Analyzed closely, that view wasn't accurate: first, I was going to have a relationship with my son; and secondly, I could always pick up from where I left off with my father. I tried to rekindle the ashes, reconnect the broken ties of our bond, spoke to him on his birthday, and once I sent him some money around Christmas time. I remember, yes, he wasn't home and I left him a message with his daughter, my little half sis Naomi, whom told him of my pecuniary intentions. The very next day he called, and this time it was me who wasn't home. Beth later informed me of a bombastic man who talked her down on the phone, and that night the same man called. It was my father. In an inebriated tone of voice, he bewailed about the woman who answered the phone earlier, and I let him finish his sentence before I assertively interjected: "You mean Beth." The aggression in his voice dropped and for the first time I knew I could never be a son to this man nor could he ever be a father to me: I had outgrown him. He quickly moved on with his agenda, blabbing in glazed mid-sentences, as if his initial strength had dwindled and abandoned him: "Your sister tells me you were gonna send me some money. How much are we talking about?" I softened my approach, it is not a manly attitude to adopt an air of arrogance before those in need, especially when they're relatives, even though his question begged for me to show a defiant stance I wanted to both show some humility and see where he wanted to go with this.
"Well, I was thinking eighty dollars would suffice" I played along, see where it'd lead me with him.
"If that's all you can muster, then I guess it's fine" he said, with a dismissive tone.
It made my stomach turn.
"Listen here", I said: " You can count on that money. There's just one thing that always bugged my mind, and I just wanted to let you in on it now that I have the time to do so."
"What's that?" he inquired.
"It always seemed to me like a puzzle but maybe you can shed some light into this mystery: How is it that a man can one day pick up and leave his wife with three of his children, and never ever look back?" I asked, of course, rhetorically.
A deafening silence befell the conversation and tears drowned his voice, his thoughts floated but his mind never surfaced, he had really nothing to say to that.