The seven harshest words any child could ask their single mother. How could she possibly respond? With a porcelain smile and a shattered chuckle? What else can she say when she doesn’t know the answers?
Growing up without a father was a sore spot in my life. Don’t get me wrong, my mum was amazing. She was like an evening stroll on the beach, calm and beautiful, with the waves kissing your feet as you walked by. Her hugs felt like the setting sun, still warm and comforting as it disappears across the horizon. She was the bedrock of the family. Be it school plays, soccer tournaments, or birthdays, she was always present. A lot went unnoticed. She was the best mum, but she wasn’t a dad.
It’s not very fair to blame her. There were just things a woman wouldn’t have been able to teach her son. She just wouldn’t have known. I was taught to pee sitting down instead of standing up because that how she peed. And that’s not how boys are supposed to pee… I found out a little too late in Primary school after a humiliating incident in the toilet and a lot of teasing.
My mum didn’t know how to dress boys either. Growing up with three sisters meant that she had no prior knowledge. The clothes in my wardrobe were a mismatch of hand-me-downs and gawky color combinations. For most of my formative years, I felt like a lonesome bright orange traffic cone in a grey car park, yearning to blend into the background with everyone else. Kids would drive their chairs around me in class, carefully avoiding accidental contact with the oddity.
Life wasn’t terrible, somewhere between staying afloat and drowning, stranded in the middle of an ocean. It wasn’t fantastic either. I always imagined having a father would be like the rescue ship that arrives at the climax of the story to save the protagonist as his raft begins to sink in shark-infested waters. No matter what my mum did, it wasn’t enough. And I carried this mindset with me through Primary school.
Everything would be better if I had a father.
Back then, Kenan was one of the kids in Primary school that I considered as a friend. He was tall. Probably the tallest in the class. I looked up to him, literally. The older brother I never had, even if we were the same age. He was the natural leader in the class, and the additional height definitely added to his charismatic allure. If you looked at the class as a whole, his stature towered over the crowd like a general on his horse overlooking his troops. It was a wonder why he’d chosen to be my friend.
At the end of school, Kenan and I would gather at the quadrangle in front of the school’s gate to wait for our parents to pick us up. Soccer was our go-to game. Well, it was mine at first. I joined soccer at the beginning of Primary school after being mesmerized by the Brazilian team during the World Cup finals. But some things just aren’t meant to be. Awkward leg coordination placed an immovable cap on my soccer potential. Kenan joined much later in the year, yet soccer flowed in his blood. With his lengthy legs, he blazed past the defenders marking him. Before the year ended, he was in the starting eleven, and I was still on the bench. It didn’t really matter to me. None of these things did.
If I had a father, I would have been like Kenan too.
Kenan's dad, Uncle Johnny, always arrived at the school's gate before my mum, and it was apparent whenever he reached. In the sea of cars parked outside the school, Uncle Johnny’s car engine revved like the roar of a wild beast, establishing dominance over the inferior species. And this particular beast looked like his owner, with his brawny physique and a deep husky voice.
Appearances aside, Uncle Johnny was a sweetheart. Endless tales of his love flowed from Kenan’s mouth, even if I didn’t want to hear about it. You couldn’t even count the number of times Kenan mentioned that he would meet his dad at a park to play soccer after school. And each time, Kenan would come back with fantastical stories about the tactics and tricks he learned. Hours spent together. How great it must have been. A real committed father.
Why couldn’t I have one?
I spent many hours waiting for my mum to pick me up. The reason she was late didn’t matter. I was alone.
My mum eventually arrived in her little car. It was silver when we bought it, but months of neglect rendered it into a dull shade of grey. The axils of the car squeaked as it came to a stop. I guess the exterior of the car wasn’t the only thing being forsaken. The roof lining of the car drooped downwards on the passenger side, rubbing against my head when I entered. My mum joked that using thumbtacks to stick up the lining was like having stars inside the car. It wasn’t funny. It wouldn’t even hold the lining up properly…
If only I had a father, things would be different. Things would be better. I needed to know. I knew I shouldn’t, but the words escaped my lips. I couldn’t hold it in anymore.
“Mama, why don’t I have a Papa?” I screamed.
She sat there, still. Her head faced the road as she drove down the highway. There was a comedic commentary duo being featured on the radio’s lunch rush-hour program. They cracked jokes and told stories, almost as though they were trying to alleviate the silence. They failed.
I would have done anything to get out of the car. Jumping out of a moving vehicle didn’t seem so far-fetched. I’d just seen someone do it in a movie a couple of nights ago. Tempting, but it was a little too extreme for this situation. Luckily, the journey wasn’t as long as normal. Somehow, we made every light along the way. It was as though the traffic gods could feel my anguish and decided to give me a pass today—no complaints from me.
We were finally home. Piles of unfiled documents were stacked along the walkway into the house, creating a path not too different from those in forests leading to the witch’s hut. I expected my mum to do an array of things when we reached home. A scolding. A beating. Something.
She cried.
My mum had bags under her eyes, puffy from nights of crying alone in the dark. They were filled with all of the family’s heartache and regret, dragged down on her face with the weight of raising my sister and me. The documents scattered around the house were affidavits and documents she was collecting for the upcoming court hearing. She wasn’t messing around. She was fighting to win custody for my sister and me. Despite everything she was going through, my mum never whined or bragged. Quietly doing what had to be done to keep the family together.
There was once my father was supposed to pick me up for a boy’s day out, just the two of us. He never came. Disappointment doesn’t even come close to what I felt. But my mum took it in her stride. She brought me out and made a day out of it. We went to the zoo, the only place in Singapore with our favorite animal, polar bears. I was mystified by nature, albeit a caged-up version. Whenever I couldn’t see the animal exhibits through the thick crowd, my mum would pick me up and seat me on her shoulders. She’d look up and smile as she watched me get mesmerized by every roar, squeak, and movement the creatures made. It wasn’t a boy’s day anymore, it was our day, and I loved it.
All the mistakes my mum made while bringing me up hurt. Embarrassment burned me like a branding on my chest, marking me for the world to see. But they were mere side stories to the main plot, creating the necessary tension for an exciting and complex series. They’ve even become funny tales I tell friends at parties. A highlight reel of sorts.
My mum’s focus was the main story arc. Ensuring that there was good character development in the essential areas of my life. It may not have been as flashy as some. It was not perfect, but it’s my story, and I’m beginning to embrace every part of it.
I’m sorry, mum. I never knew how painful those where words when I spoke them. I didn’t realize then.
Thanks for being my dad.
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