Nobody’s Child #30
On March 24, 1999 NATO forces began military action against Serbia, and I emigrated from Ireland to Kansas City. It was a Wednesday.
Almost 6 weeks later I went to a neighborhood bar in south KC for a meeting of mostly Irish-Americans who professed to be more than a social group. There I was introduced to a woman by a friend of mine from Dublin of 16 years, and by her brother. It was a Tuesday.
One evening 10 weeks later, after tacos at her house, we got engaged and I agreed to adopt her son. He was not yet 3 years old. A short time later he began to call me Daddy. He has done so ever since. Next month he will be 12 years old.
I separated from my son’s mother in late 2002, and 3 months later I was served with divorce papers in the used bookstore where I worked. It was just before closing time. I remember dropping a pile of books on the floor and wishing I hadn’t promised to attend her sister’s birthday party that was starting in a matter of minutes. But half an hour later I was there, in that midtown Irish pub getting drunk under the disco ball. When people don’t know what to say, they buy you a drink.
5 years after the marriage ended I moved back to Ireland. But first I bought a Kansas City phone number that routes to me online, wherever I happen to be. It means if my son calls me from Kansas City, it is for the cost of a local call regardless of where in the world I am. And twice a week, every week for 6 months he has done that. Until a month ago, when I was threatened with no more access.
Our calls usually last 15 to 30 minutes, and are of course the highlight of my week. Sometimes my family in Ireland, his grandparents, uncles and aunt, get to chime in. The dog pricks her ears but has yet to speak up.
The last time my son called me he said he’d call again in 3 days, a week before my birthday. We didn’t have a rigid schedule, but in those 6 months he had never called more than a day later than he said he would. It’s now over 30 days since he last called.
These are my words. This is my story. I own it, and I’m going to tell it.
Related Posts:
• What’s The Story?
• Back to America to See my Son
• Report From an American Vacation
• Leaving Kansas City
• #31: Dinner Outdoors in Kansas City
• #32 : A Photo of Me and My Son
• #33 : Our Phone Number
• All posts in this Kansas City story
Eolaí gan Fhéile:
Tell it you shall. And read it we will.
crap
As a child, I was on the other end of the phone, and the calls made my week too. I talked to my father just about every week or more for nearly 30 years, and I still miss those phone calls now that he’s gone. My heart goes out to you, and I hope it’s resolved soon.
Oh, shit. You must be terrified.
What the hell’s happening?
I’m sending out a virtual hug, Eolai.
This is so sad! I know there’s 2 sides to every story (or 3 or more) and I’m sure she has her reasoning. That being said, she should be thankful that someone else loves her son so much. The same is true about a biological father. Why are people that way? This is the one other person on earth who loves your child as much as you do. I wish my husband (my children’s stepfather) loved my children half as much. He won’t travel next door to the park to watch my son’s ball game let alone across the ocean!
You’re in my prayers.
Patricia
I am so sorry.
I can’t begin to imagine the hurt and frustration. BD and I both send our hearts out to you and your son.
Oh man, that’s such a sad post. I hope things work out.
That is completely and totally shit. Any trustworthy go-between available to you?
This is not the beginning of something; it is the end. Those who could help know all they need to know; they have chosen not to.
When this became apparent at Christmas 2005 it left a fight too big, so plans to leave Kansas City were initiated.