The Day I Learned You Were Coming

My son,

Your mother came down the stairs with the test still in her hand. She was moving quickly, smiling, already speaking before she reached me.

“I’m pregnant.”

She was crying. The refrigerator hummed behind me. I pressed my hand against the edge of the counter.

And I froze.

My breath shortened, and for a second I felt the instinct to run. I didn't move or turn away from your mother. But some part of me wanted out, and I was ashamed of it almost as soon as I felt it.

She stood there holding the first proof of you. I stood across from her thinking, I don't know how to do this.

I don't know how to be someone's father.

I remembered waiting for mine. How long I could listen for a car. How little it took to make me believe he was coming after all. I had spent years trying to keep that boy's expectations out of my adult life.

Now your mother was telling me about you, and I could feel him in the way I held myself against the counter.

She kept talking. I don't remember everything she said. Her voice seemed far away, and I was afraid of what was happening in my own head.

What if I become him?

I wanted you. I loved your mother. I didn't know how those things could be true while I stood there wanting to escape.

I was afraid that the impulse told me something about myself I wouldn't be able to change.

And I knew there were ways I already withdrew. I could sit beside someone I loved and keep thinking about work. I could be so occupied with what needed doing that I stopped hearing the person speaking to me.

I was afraid of giving you that. A father who could account for his time and still leave you wondering when you'd get some of it.

I knew what my father's absence had cost me. I had been treating that knowledge as if it would keep me from hurting you.

Standing there, I wasn't so sure.

I wanted to be your father. I was frightened of what being my son might cost you. Both feelings were there, and I couldn't make one disappear by insisting on the other.

There's a version of this morning I could tell you in which I understood everything, made a promise, and stopped being afraid. I don't remember a morning that simple.

I remember your mother coming toward me with the test.

I remember wanting to be ready for what she was telling me.

You were coming, and I didn't know how to be your father yet.

I wanted the chance to learn.

~ Dad