Inconceivable (our manny)

sperm donation station

Inconceivable (their manny)

She’s been done with me for several years now, or should I say, we’re done. Of her long-term relationships, I was numero uno and perhaps, one that got away. I loved with everything I had. Still, I was troubled by how she went about becoming a parent, and the three guys that seemed to be roped into the vortex of her and her son.

“I tried the dating apps for a year or so and just got tired of it,” she said once. “And I was like, fuck it, I’ll buy a baby daddy. And he’s got a genius IQ.” She stopped just short of showing me his picture or sperm donor profile. What she did show me, months after we began living together was the Facebook page of all the children this specimen sired. In some odd form of satisfaction, she said, “My son’s got all of these brothers, really.” I held my horrified tongue. She was considering sharing the page with him, later in life. “He’s going to want to know.”

We stayed together a bit longer. I was making adjustments to this concept of “his real dad” and my “sorta dad” status as related by her son, one evening while we were having dinner. “Cause,” he said, “You’re technically, my dad.” A sad moment for the adults in the room. I was never going to be his dad, or now, even a father figure. I was also not going to be one of the several hangers-on who dotted their lives, starting with the manny. A loving and jovial young gay man who played nurse and daddy to them both during their toddler years. “I was going to have a second kid with him, but it didn’t work out.”

It didn’t work out.

And how a random image in my Facebook feed of the manny and her inside a ski lodge looking like a cute couple. Her smile and blue eyes still grab me with a jerk. She’s draped around him like she’s posing for a happy-couple Christmas card. He’s a ski instructor who freelances in the winter and does whitewater rafting in the summer. A free spirit. Lovely guy. Not really a dad bone in him. But hey… I’m old-fashioned and partially blinded by my own weepy eye. (I jest.)

So much more was wrong with our relationship. The manny looks like he’s put on some weight. She’s moving back to Vermont. I wonder where he’ll pickup his next gig. And I wonder how this man plays an essential role in this boy’s life and this woman’s life so many years after their professional relationship ended. She’s gathered several others through the years. There was the man who sent her flowers and love letters at every possible occasion. She couldn’t understand why that would irk me. And the guy who wanted to come down from Vermont and move in and become the father figure both she and her son desired.

I guess in some ways, he’s got three father figures, now that I’m history.

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