My three-year-old son is running around a cramped living room in my sister’s house, manoeuvring between many pairs of knees, circling around the coffee table, roaring. He thinks he’s a T-Rex. In truth, he more resembles a pale and skinny lizard, propped on a pair of toothpicks for legs, his tiny fingers positioned as claws. High on sugar from the birthday cake, he actually looks fierce—a snarl revealing baby teeth, two crimson cheeks, sweaty hair sticking up in spikes. A few amused older adults, my mom especially, try to grab him playfully roaring back, but this only boosts his craze and he nearly knocks down a floor lamp. I’m worrying about the rattling china cups while eyeing a cactus, much taller than him, fearing a collision, when he storms towards a tall shelf with many displayed chachkas and I instinctively close my eyes. Still, nothing happens. When I look at him again I see my boy standing, quiet and curious, examining a framed photo of a newborn with his mom and dad on each side, smiling. My nephew was born the year before, on Father’s Day.
I feel a pang deep in my stomach. Father’s Day will always suck for Filip. My husband, his biological father, left ten days before I gave birth, a tad prematurely due to stress; he'd left me, my pregnant belly and the troubled country we lived in, trading us for Texas and a mistress and later, another two children. On this joyful summer day, my nephew’s birthday, Father’s Day became my burden. The thought of my fatherless child, noticing for the first time the difference between having a family rather than “just a mom” deal, instantly grew as a chip on my shoulder, the size of Belgrade’s divorce court and its lousy, unenforceable parenting and child support agreement. The rest was no longer a problem: we were safe, having emigrated to Canada, dodging the Civil war and the subsequent NATO bombing. I landed a great job, rented my first apartment, opened a savings account. With all that relief came Father’s Day—not celebrated in Serbia—as a relentless reminder of what we’ve lacked, in flyers and commercials, topped with mandatory card-crafting activities at day care and school.
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| Belgrade winter of '96. |
“There’s nothing that the two of us cannot provide for him” had been my mighty mom’s pledge at Filip’s birth and every single day since. Mom had been my rock, my best friend and that sane, wise and reliable other parent.
Traditionally, on Father’s Day, Filip and I would go to the zoo, biking or rollerblading, followed by slaughtering a few pounds of chicken wings. I doubt he’d been aware of the occasion but for my own sake, I tried to make sure no fun was missing when mama was filling in for that other, absent parent.
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| Toronto, 2006 |
A quarter of a century passed. My boy grew up, got really tall and kind and strong, fell in love a few times, graduated from university and settled in another city with a full time dream-job. Meanwhile, I remarried and Filip became a devoted big brother to two little boys who have an incredible father we celebrate not just every year, but each and every day, who is also a praise-worthy stepfather. The absent parent remained absent, never attempting to meet Filip nor talk to him, unless a few tries at cyber-bullying count, back when Filip was becoming a teenager.
The shades were pulled all the way down forcing the November sun rays to dim before entering the room 1708 at the Princess Margaret Cancer Centre.
A printed page showing a black butterfly taped to the outside of the door, stating the plea for no interruptions—a gracious end-of-life gesture so that medical and support staff can honour there won’t be needs for food, housekeeping, nor further tests. Crouched on the chair, next to the hospital bed I am holding my mom’s hand. She spent most of the day sleeping, but now she’s awake and alert.
“I can’t stop thinking of Filip and how beautiful his condo is.” Mom’s voice is crisp and stronger than I expected. The painkiller dose is likely at its peak. “And how he prepared a feast for us, a generous host with that ‘best of everything’ spread!”
The Epic Road Trip, Sep 2020
“Yes.“ I creak; my throat is dry, I’m swallowing tears fast, careful not to be caught. “We were so lucky with the timing.” Just six weeks earlier I took mom and my younger sons on a weekend road trip, to visit Filip and see how he’d settled. Mom and I booked a hotel, while kids stayed for what will forever be remembered as 'an epic sleepover'. Few weeks later, the nausea started. The cause labeled: terminal.
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| Our last |
“You’ve always promised that, mama. It’s just that I never believed it was possible for me. I feared Filip would’ve ended up scarred for not having a father.”
Mom took a breath. “It’s never the abandoned ones that are scarred. They grow up mature and resilient, like Filip has. It’s the children that came afterwards I worry about: like your ex’s kids,” she paused, “like your nephews.” I shuddered, feeling the electricity spread from the nape of my neck and down my spine. Indeed, that framed photo taken right after my nephew’s birth should’ve included a toddler sister. Older than Filip, the young woman had recently attempted to make contact with her biological father. It didn’t go well. “Some day, they will realize their father was the douchebag* capable of abandonment and their mother conspired. It could’ve easily been any one of them.” Mom closed her eyes.
I adjusted her oxygen mask and gently moved the bangs off her forehead, then sat down took her hand in both of mine, pressing my cheek deep into her palm.
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| In my mom's wisdom: It's the opposite for douchebags |
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