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True Love: True Betrayal and Baby Boy
I broke up with my first real mutual love and my whole world came crashing down. It was only the breakup that made me start smoking cigarettes again. I quit smoking because my first true love, Miss N., ordered me to quit. It was normal that I would not smoke as long as I was dating Miss N.
Certainly, Miss N. was indeed a girl of my kind – petite, tall and light-skinned – a real yellow bone. When I broke up with her, it hurt so much that I thought I would never recover from the heartache. I certainly hated the sun, the sunrise and yes, the sunset. I hated living alone. I missed everything about her – the perfume, the gentle smile, and her generally uplifting demeanor.
The breakup was sharp, messy and heartbreaking. At the heart of the breakup was a mixture of immaturity, jealousy and alleged infidelity on her part. Of course, no one said anything about my own occasional affair shenanigans while I was dating Miss N.
In hindsight, maybe it shouldn’t have happened. The breakup came dramatically after I found out that she visited her ex-boyfriend. I didn’t manage to find out the whole story, something broke for me that day. The golden cup broke and there was no going back. This is despite the fact that I was deeply in love with Miss N. She was my first real mutual love. Maybe she didn’t know how deeply I invested my emotions in our relationship.
The situation is complicated by the fact that at the time of our relationship I was a broken man. My life was getting out of control. My position as President of the Student Representative Council (SRC) was precarious at best. I actually stopped taking academic classes. I always had armed guards lurking in the background. My life was in danger from a Concerned Group of Students. I retreated to my apartment – read novels and played love songs. I was diagnosed with depression. I did not receive any treatment. As for me, my life has come to a dead end. She didn’t know my situation very well. On the surface, everything looked good.
However, it is a meticulous detail that she was pregnant at the time of the breakup, and I did not know. I did not initiate the termination of our relationship either here or there. I specifically told her over the phone never to talk or visit me. It is also irrelevant that claims of infidelity have never been proven. I guess it’s also a moot point that many feeble attempts at reconciliation were made after I found out about her pregnancy. It all went down the drain. The problem was that I wanted Miss N. to declare that the unborn child was mine, not the guy she was allegedly seeing. She reasoned that I was impossible. In her opinion, I should have accepted the responsibility – ‘man up’, as it were. It became clear to me that she had a hard time taking the breakup and that she couldn’t handle my anger and doubt. These unresolved issues of anger and despair led her to make what I still consider to this day a “terrible decision.” She decided that she would raise the unborn baby alone.
Anyway, I loved Miss N. In fact, I loved her long after we broke up. I told everyone who would listen that one day I would marry Miss N. It never happened. Instead, life happened.
As a result of the acrimonious breakup, she gave birth to my first child alone. I didn’t even know the due date. I never had any proof that the child existed. Well, well, until that life-changing moment one everyday afternoon when I happened to meet my boy for the first time at the mall. He was four years old. It was an emotional reunion. Rubbing salt on an open wound is that he didn’t even know I was his real father. As for me, I couldn’t even acknowledge his presence. I had no right to hold and kiss my own son. While I was talking to his mom, he tightened his grip on the man holding his hand. Maybe he was afraid of meeting a stranger. He was in the arms of another man – a man unknown to me. It hurt me deeply that my son was raised by another random stranger.
All my life I have believed in the mantra that says – there has been no greater villain in the history of mankind than a bad father. Of course, I knew better. I was raised by an abusive father. He had verbal tantrums. He physically abused my siblings. He shouted curses at the slightest provocation. He ruled with fear. He would humiliate both the child and his wife in one sentence with unspeakable words. He showed no love for his wife or children. He was truly a monster.
For four long years, before the chance meeting with my son, I was afraid that I would become the man I hated – my father. He had children scattered all over the place. He paid no attention to them. To him – his children were a necessary distraction that could be ignored. In my father’s life – all his children were an absence that was never felt. I speak about my father in the past tense, because he does not exist in my world. Deep in my heart I always knew that I was not my father.
I had a dream about a family not like his. My dream has always been to start a new family line, my humble line parallel to my father’s. I imagined a house full of sons, yes, I wanted only male children. I wanted my new family line to continue into infinity. I imagined that my first son would be “the obedient one, he would stay at home and be a pillar of help, he would marry a good girl” and carry on the family line. I’m glad I lived to tell the tales. Except there is a twist to my real life story, I have a little girl that I love so much that she knows it.
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