I have given my father exactly what he wanted since me and my sister were teens–
a baby boy. My father watches my son with eyes so close to love it hurts, the
way he watches my son as if he was the true treasure
that my own participation in the child’s creation and rearing is
inconsequential. I remember his love,
the weeks we were abandoned for band practice, school, anything, while we
found love with other men, just as suitable as him. We got
nothing growing up. Two girls, we tried our best to fit in his dreams, got
involved in sports, joined track and soccer and still we
found his affections lacking.

My son squeals crazy when Grandpa walks in and I am sixteen
again, fading into wallpaper, old furniture, watch the
man too tired to teach me to read playing horse with my treasure,
a child I’m trying desperately not to hate right now. This is
even worse than childhood–my heart cramps again, this is mine to love,
“He’s my son!” restraining, again and again, we
me the adult and the little girl inside me–claps along with glee, finally,
Daddy isn’t mad.