He asked me if I thought he’d be a good father.
I have been asked loaded questions in my day, but none quite so heavy.
It is not that I think he should avoid parenthood because he is a birth father. I am not dooming him to a life of childlessness because of everything that happened. I was just as big a part in the decision to relinquish as he was… or, if I’m honest, I was a bigger part of that decision. He signed the papers, yes, but I was the driving force. And I am an amazing mom to my two boys. I would have fought — tooth and nail — anyone who tried to tell me that the relinquishment of my firstborn made it impossible for me to be a good mother to any subsequent children. I’d still fight tooth and nail.
But still, the question hit me hard.
He never asked me that question when I was pregnant with the Munchkin. Granted, I started in with the adoption plan shortly after my 18th week of pregnancy once I had been placed on bed rest after my kidney surgery. Perhaps he never had a chance to get to that question. Maybe I switched gears to adoption speak before he even had a chance to grasp that he had helped create a life and was, in some way, responsible for the outcome. I don’t know why he never asked me that question.
I don’t know why he has chosen to ask me now, even before he and his wife have conceived a child.
But it hurt me in a place that I didn’t know still bore scars. My immediate reaction was deep and visceral and full of anger and fury and rage. If I was a throwing person, I would have thrown something, breaking it simply for the release. To see the shards of glass as a visual representation of how I once felt and how I suddenly felt all over again. Thankfully, I chose not to say anything for a few days. I recognized my anger as something deeper within myself, tied to my guilt and shame and sense of utter failure. I quieted up for most of the week, unable and unwilling to discuss what I was feeling with anyone.
He has apologized for everything that happened back then. I have forgiven him. But I tiptoe around real discussion with him during our infrequent bouts of contact. I discuss my career, what the boys are doing, the constant desire for a vacation and a nap and other such simplistic bits of conversation. When I was pregnant with my first son, I couldn’t have imagined asking him, “Do you think I’ll make a good mother?” Then again, I hadn’t forgiven him at that point, so maybe that makes all the difference. I suppose I am most taken aback by how easily he asked me such a loaded question, as if he didn’t even recognize how it might pierce the deepest, darkest parts of my soul that I keep hidden from almost everyone at all times.
The truth is that most people who ask the question — will I be a good parent — are usually those who will be fine. Questioning one’s ability and gauging readiness is important. It’s not a guarantee, but it’s a sign that good things are happening in the head and the heart. I have no reason to believe that he wouldn’t be a good father.
I just wish he would have asked that question seven years and one month ago.
