An Open Letter to the Child I Never Had

To my son, had you been born, I wonder if you’d have looked like me.  I wanted to write you and perhaps apologize and explain why you don’t exist outside my mind.  I decided a long time ago that fatherhood likely wouldn’t suit me.  I carry too many bad genes.  Truthfully, I didn’t want to pass those on.  I’m quick to anger, savagely insecure, and hopelessly flawed.  I didn’t want you to grow up thinking you weren’t enough.  It’d kill me to think that. 

To the child I never had, I’m sorry I never gave you a chance.  Whether it be biology or some form of self-denial, you’ll never get to be.  Perhaps I loved you too much to subject you to my apathy.  These are the lies I tell myself as I wonder if you’d have had my eyes and curious nature.  I pray you forgive me.  I never really had a choice.

I lie and say I never wanted kids, dearest daughter never to be.  But the thing is, I’ve dreamed about you since I was seventeen.  I wish I could have provided all the love you deserved.  Maybe I could have given you the love that, for whatever reason, I never felt myself.  I know the genetic maladies that live within me.  Yet, perhaps you’d forgive me long before you became too bitter to love me.  I guess we will never know.  I’ll lie and say your omission was an act of mercy, but perhaps I was too afraid to repeat past mistakes.

People talk of the future and the world we will leave to our children, but what of us who never procreated?  What are we leaving—and to whom?  I lie and say I don’t like children.  The truth is they make me sad.  I never got to be a father.  So, I decided to pretend to be wary, feign annoyance, and keep them at a distance.  The less I see their little faces, the less I’m reminded I’ll never bring one into the world. Such are the lies I tell myself to keep my heart from breaking.  I would have loved you with my entire being, but the good Lord had other plans.  So, I’ll keep my distance and pray the tears stay where they belong.

In the end, this was my choice to make.  I was one half of a biological puzzle.  One where the pieces display a life devoid of children.  The holy union, a coital creation, was never meant to be.  I can’t regret what felt right at the time.  I’m not even sure regret is what I feel now. 

Now that I am firmly in middle age, things are viewed differently.  I have a perspective now that I lacked in my twenties and thirties.  Call it evolution or some rampant biological clock indicating an end to a genetic branch.  Whatever it is, it makes me think thoughts I hadn’t considered—things like legacy and progeny.

 As with all things, time moves forward, and I have no heir.  Don’t misinterpret this as a lamentation or even some form of depression.  This is simply a reflection on how life ended up.  I suppose it’s better to chop the bitter root than pass along poisoned fruit.  I’ll stick with that lie anyway.  It’s easier that way.