Chapter 7: The Conversation I Had Been Afraid Of
I chose a Saturday morning.
Not because Saturday was easier.
Because Marcus had football in the afternoon, and I had learned over ten years of being his father that it helped him to have something ordinary waiting on the other side of a hard thing.
Diane was at her sister's.
We had agreed on that.
Whatever came after, this part was mine to do.
I made pancakes.
His favourite, with the blueberries folded in, not scattered on top the way Diane did it.
He noticed the difference.
He always noticed.
He ate two and a half and then looked at me across the table the way he sometimes did when he knew something was coming.
"Dad," he said.
"Yeah."
"Is this the talk?"
I looked at him.
"What talk?"
"The one you've been getting ready to have." He picked up his fork and put it down again.
"You've been quiet for a week.
And you made the good pancakes."
Ten years old.
I almost smiled.
"Yes," I said.
"This is the talk."
He put both hands flat on the table.
Bracing himself.
The same gesture I had seen in the kitchen the week before, the T-shirt twisting, the chin down.
"Okay," he said.
"I need to tell you something about where you came from," I said.
"About before you were born.
It's complicated, and some of it is going to be hard to hear.
But I'm going to tell you all of it, and then you can ask me anything you want.
Deal?"
"Deal," he said.
Quiet.
Steady.
I told him.
I told him that before I married his mother, she had known another man.
That this man and I were different people.
That when she found out she was going to have a baby, she made a decision — a wrong decision — not to tell either of us the full truth.
I told him that the man's name was Daniel.
That Daniel had not known about him for a long time.
That Daniel had found out recently, and that was why there had been difficult conversations in our house.
I told him that a test had been done.
That the test showed that Daniel was his biological father.
I watched his face through all of it.
He did not cry.
He did not look away.
He listened the way he listened to everything — completely, with those careful eyes, filing each piece away.
When I finished, he was quiet for a long time.
"So you're not my dad," he said.
"I am your dad," I said.
"I have been your dad since before you were born.
I was in the room when you arrived.
I taught you to ride a bike.
I sat with you in the hospital when you broke your arm.
I have been your dad every single day of your life and I will be your dad every single day that comes after this.
Biology is one thing.
Being someone's father is another thing entirely.
Do you understand the difference?"
He thought about it.
"Like how Mr.
Hendricks coaches our team even though he's not anyone's actual dad."
"Exactly like that," I said.
"Except I am your actual dad.
In every way that counts."
He looked at the table.
"Does Daniel want to meet me?"
"He does," I said.
"But that is completely your choice.
You don't have to do anything you don't want to do.
Not now, not ever."
"What's he like?"
"I don't know him well," I said.
"But his mother came to speak to me.
And she seemed like a good person."
"He has a mum?"
"He does.
Her name is Carol.
She wrote you a letter, actually.
I have it.
You can read it whenever you're ready, or never, if you'd rather not."
He thought about that.
"Can I read it after football?"
"Of course," I said.
He picked up his fork again.
He took a bite of pancake.
He chewed it slowly.
"Dad," he said.
"Yeah."
"What she said.
About not cooking for me." He didn't look up.
"Was that because of this?"
I had been waiting for that question.
I had been dreading it.
"I think she was carrying something very heavy," I said.
"And she handled it badly.
That's not an excuse.
What she said was wrong, and she knows it.
But it wasn't about you.
It was never about you.
You did nothing wrong."
He nodded.
Still not looking up.
"Marcus."
He looked up.
"You asked for bread," I said.
"That's all you did.
And you deserved a plate at that table.
You always have."
His face did something then.
Not crying.
Something quieter than crying.
A kind of release, like a breath he had been holding for longer than one week.
"Okay," he said.
"Okay," I said.
He finished his pancakes.
He asked if he could watch television before football.
I said yes.
He carried his plate to the sink, rinsed it without being asked, and went to the sitting room.
I sat at the kitchen table for a while after that.
I thought about all the Saturday mornings that had come before this one.
All the pancakes.
All the ordinary things that had held us together without either of us knowing how much weight they were carrying.
Then I washed the dishes and went to watch television with my son.
At some point he leaned against my shoulder.
I didn't say anything.
Neither did he.
We sat like that until it was time for football.
But when I dropped him at the pitch and watched him jog toward his teammates, I saw him do something I had not seen him do in a while.
He called out to one of the other boys.
The boy turned and grinned.
May you like
Marcus grinned back.
He didn't stand by the fence.
