I grew up side by side with resentment. with a deep bitterness that grew year upon year until i threw my rage right at my father. so many years of walking on eggshells just to find out that all along he was only ever a stranger masquerading as some art deco version of a father. something that wasn’t even close to one.
i used to write about him as rage but i have always been the one who was angry, he is nothing but a small man who lost his ego sometime in the 90s. nothing but a man who couldn’t have kids and made it all my problem. a man who grew up seeing his parents model healthy love and chose to discard it. chose to teach his children fear instead of protection, chose to let me hate him instead of putting his goddamn pride aside.
there is a simple truth that has always gnawn at us both, long before i found out why. you could never love another man’s child, even if you were the one who made that choice. even if i never got to make a single choice.
When i learnt that you weren’t my father, i wasn’t sad - there was nothing but relief. to find him and know that i didn’t come from you, that i came from a man so good he spent his life giving to others, that i came from a man who could not be more different than you.
years ago, i wrote a list of pros and cons about you and the overarching feeling was this: it’s not enough. it will never be enough.
#147, "Another Man's Child" by C.A. Beviss
