Worries of a fake dad

I have a child. I don't really, but I do, together with my husband. What's more, we have two. I have not begotten either of them, nor, obviously, born them into this world, and they do not share a single gene with me or my husband. We never changed their nappies - God forbid - and we haven't raised them. They came to us all finished, very presentable, they are both well-mannered, say please and thank you, and you can take them anywhere.

Like any parent, fake or real, we take our roles very seriously. Whenever they grace our doorstep, we feed them their favourite meal and, just like real parents, we very much enjoy their company. We also take the downsides seriously: we worry about jobs, about the roof over their heads, about health issues - we are just past the covid years - and above all, we worry about their emotional wellbeing. Like any parent would. 

As I said, there are two of them, and they are as different as they come. The elder of the two is an internalizer. Loyal to a fault, often finding himself in an internal conflict because of it. My husband is better than I am at guessing what's going on in the guy's head, and, more often than not, he can tell what is eating him, if anything. I am not very good at that. Once everything is out in the open, I can usually contribute where emotional stuff is concerned, and I had best leave the rational side to the pair of them. Anyway, even though we are very different, we share an awful lot, and I have written much about him (in Dutch) on heerenleed.com.

But this little story is about the other one, the younger of the two. Though with him, too, not one single gene is shared, this one is just like me in many ways. We are polyglots, we are both writers, and we are both extravert men who do not hide their emotions.

He came to us many years ago. In a dark hour, when he needed a different kind of family. A self-appointed one without the burden of blood ties, however valuable these may be. As this kind of thing often goes, it started as a joke. I remember it well. We were talking about 'our' eldest and said we had a fake son, and his answer was, "I thought that was me¨! When I asked why we couldn't have two, he said, "two gay sons, wow"! I told him we could have done worse.

It has been a done deal since. Like anyone worthwhile, he has emotional baggage, which is exactly as it should be. Relationships came and went, again, exactly as it should be. 

 

But today, he is beyond sad. After spending a happy summer on another continent with the one he thought would be the love of his life, everything went pear-shaped. He came back to us and told his sad story, still numb and heartbroken. And bewildered. He never knew what hit him. Without answers and no way of getting any, I saw my boy struggle, trying desperately for some normalcy in his life. But this lost love had cut him to the bone. And we are powerless. It brings tears to my eyes to see him like this. 

 

And now, we are in the middle of the bravest and most desperate journey anyone can make. He could not go on like this. So he went on a long journey across an ocean. With very little hope to win back his love, but determined to get answers for a head and a heart full of questions. Insane, some might say. I was surprised my husband did not say so. But I can relate. Totally. In his place, I would have done exactly the same. Brave, scared boy. We would have come with him for support (Now there is an insane and impractical idea). Instead, we came with him virtually. So yes, it is we, who are in the middle of this journey. Wherever the internet permits, we are with him every step of this rough road.

Now, he has his answers. He is still heartbroken. And still on the other side of the ocean. Poor boy. Son, it is time to turn that page. We are waiting for you here, with a chicken in the oven, a fire lit in the hearth, and open arms to greet you. Here, where you are loved for whom you are, good-natured, cheerful, sweet and helpful to all.  Deserving of a great new love. It is probably waiting round the corner. 

And, my lad, very fittingly, Martinho says it all: Canta, canta, minha gente, a vida vai melhorar! (Sing, sing, my people, life will get better). 

 

And... Sorry to my readers if I went way over the top. But it is what it is. Heartfelt. So why share this with you? Because I want to. If this emotional roller-coaster has been hard on him, it did not leave me untouched, far from it. Writing it down makes it palpable but manageable. And because I want our boy to know. He will know it is about him.