“He moved in with
her. She stayed home, cooked and washed for him while he went to work. Then
she got pregnant. He asked her to have an abortion because his work assignment
was almost over and he had to move back to where he lived before. Mama said she
would keep me and my father gave her two names: one for a boy and one for a
girl.
"I got the girl’s
name. Mama said he sent her letters and money for a few months after I was
born. Then everything stopped. Mama kept sending letters but there was no
reply. When I was eighteen, she gave me the letters he wrote, a faded light
blue boxers and an undershirt that had changed from white to brown. There was
no picture of him. When I asked her what he looked like, she said my image of
my face is the image of his face.
"After having my
own family, I was curious to know my father. My husband and I found his address
in Maryland—he was married—and we got his number from a cousin. I didn’t have
the courage to call my father, as I felt nervous. My friend agreed to talk for
me. When he answered the phone, she told him about my mother and about me. She told
him I was listening.
“Lady, I don’t
know you,” he said.
“But you are her father. She’s your daughter,” my friend said.
“Lady, I don’t know you. Don’t call this number again.”
I hang up the phone.
“Call him again,” my friend said.
“No,” I said, “I’m embarrassed.”
I’ll never know my
father. That’s OK. I’m happy my children
have a father they know and a father that loves them. They are my family.
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This is Maggie's (psuedonym) story. If you have a non-fiction story you'd like to share, please read the Share Your Story page.
