much thought to who his “real” dad was. That he knew this dad person wasn’t dead. That he assumed I loved this other dad.
I hadn’t been sure what to do about it. Leo had never shown any real interest in his father, had never asked any questions about him. But it was clearly something he thought about.
I’d never wanted it to be like this. I’d never planned for him to grow up without knowing his father. He was meant, when he was conceived, to have two parents who would love and care for and raise him. I wasn’t meant to be one of those parents, ofcourse: I was going to be the aunt, the birth mother, the person who had helped give him life—but he was always meant to know his father.
And then I became his mother, and Leo was left wondering about his dad. He was left thinking about his uver one but never saying anything. Maybe because he thought it’d make me cry. Maybe because he wasn’t sure if I would tell him. If he asked, I don’t know what I would have told him. It’s not as if I had told anyone else. My family all suspected, but no one had ever asked, so I had never told them.
It wasn’t as if, once I told Leo about his dad, I could finish it by saying, “You can go and see him if you want.”
I hadn’t been sure what to do, so I did what I did every time I didn’t know what to do for the best, I put the note back where I found it, and blocked it out by making us all something to eat.
I stand in the doorway of Leo’s room, wondering if there are any other notes he has written.
His plane landed hours ago.
OK, it wasn’t quite hours ago, but it felt like it. Every minute that he was queuing up to get through immigration, to get his passport stamped, waiting for his bags (how many can he have when he’s a boy who’s always traveled and lived light?) to appear on the carousel and wrestle them off, felt like an hour to me.
Put in context, the fact that I hadn’t seen him in eight months, three weeks and four days should have stayed my impatience. But this was Mal. Mal. My most favorite person in the whole world. The person I had known longest in the whole world. I was barely restraining myself from climbing over the barrierand running through the double doors of the Arrivals lounge, leapfrogging over a couple of (armed) security guards, whilst shouting his name. I had visions that he’d missed his plane. He’d called me two days ago to make sure I could still come and meet him at the airport. It was all meant to be a big surprise for our family; they weren’t expecting him back for another five months at least, so I was to meet him, then we’d show up at his mother’s. Bless Mal, though, he wasn’t exactly the most organized of men when there were women involved. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’d gone out for a few beers the night before his plane left, got talking to someone pretty and Antipodean and decided that his future did indeed lie in Australia, and that he might just stay. Then in a week or so, he’d be back on the phone, telling me that he’d changed his mind and was coming home after all.
That was the thing about my pal Mal, he fell in love at the same rate he fell in lust, then he spent an inordinate amount of time—usually longer than it took for him to fall for said woman—trying to make it work, before giving it up as a bad lot and leaving.
The last time I saw him, it had been at this very airport, but I hadn’t been able to see him properly because I was crying so much. I don’t think his mother had cried that much, and she, Victoria, Cordy, Mum and Dad had all discreetly blended into the background whilst we said our goodbyes. He’d put down his small rucksack and gathered me up in his arms. “Please stop crying,” he whispered into my ear.
I nodded, tears still streaming down my face despite my valiant effort to hold them in, which involved sniffing back a large globule of snot before it left my nose. “You’re going to make me cry,” he said.
I
I hadn’t been sure what to do about it. Leo had never shown any real interest in his father, had never asked any questions about him. But it was clearly something he thought about.
I’d never wanted it to be like this. I’d never planned for him to grow up without knowing his father. He was meant, when he was conceived, to have two parents who would love and care for and raise him. I wasn’t meant to be one of those parents, ofcourse: I was going to be the aunt, the birth mother, the person who had helped give him life—but he was always meant to know his father.
And then I became his mother, and Leo was left wondering about his dad. He was left thinking about his uver one but never saying anything. Maybe because he thought it’d make me cry. Maybe because he wasn’t sure if I would tell him. If he asked, I don’t know what I would have told him. It’s not as if I had told anyone else. My family all suspected, but no one had ever asked, so I had never told them.
It wasn’t as if, once I told Leo about his dad, I could finish it by saying, “You can go and see him if you want.”
I hadn’t been sure what to do, so I did what I did every time I didn’t know what to do for the best, I put the note back where I found it, and blocked it out by making us all something to eat.
I stand in the doorway of Leo’s room, wondering if there are any other notes he has written.
His plane landed hours ago.
OK, it wasn’t quite hours ago, but it felt like it. Every minute that he was queuing up to get through immigration, to get his passport stamped, waiting for his bags (how many can he have when he’s a boy who’s always traveled and lived light?) to appear on the carousel and wrestle them off, felt like an hour to me.
Put in context, the fact that I hadn’t seen him in eight months, three weeks and four days should have stayed my impatience. But this was Mal. Mal. My most favorite person in the whole world. The person I had known longest in the whole world. I was barely restraining myself from climbing over the barrierand running through the double doors of the Arrivals lounge, leapfrogging over a couple of (armed) security guards, whilst shouting his name. I had visions that he’d missed his plane. He’d called me two days ago to make sure I could still come and meet him at the airport. It was all meant to be a big surprise for our family; they weren’t expecting him back for another five months at least, so I was to meet him, then we’d show up at his mother’s. Bless Mal, though, he wasn’t exactly the most organized of men when there were women involved. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’d gone out for a few beers the night before his plane left, got talking to someone pretty and Antipodean and decided that his future did indeed lie in Australia, and that he might just stay. Then in a week or so, he’d be back on the phone, telling me that he’d changed his mind and was coming home after all.
That was the thing about my pal Mal, he fell in love at the same rate he fell in lust, then he spent an inordinate amount of time—usually longer than it took for him to fall for said woman—trying to make it work, before giving it up as a bad lot and leaving.
The last time I saw him, it had been at this very airport, but I hadn’t been able to see him properly because I was crying so much. I don’t think his mother had cried that much, and she, Victoria, Cordy, Mum and Dad had all discreetly blended into the background whilst we said our goodbyes. He’d put down his small rucksack and gathered me up in his arms. “Please stop crying,” he whispered into my ear.
I nodded, tears still streaming down my face despite my valiant effort to hold them in, which involved sniffing back a large globule of snot before it left my nose. “You’re going to make me cry,” he said.
I
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