SEVENTEEN YEARS AGO
A woman showed up on my doorstep today with two children in tow, claiming that they are my grandchildren.
We’d never met before, but I suppose that comes as little surprise. I hardly know my own son these days. Last I heard from Daniel, he was in Washington state and hoping I would wire him money. That was four years ago. These children are ten and twelve.
There’s little way to know whether the woman—Alice is her name—is telling the truth, and maybe anyone else in my shoes would demand some proof that my son is indeed the father.
Except it would appear he hasn’t been involved in his own children’s lives.
If I had any means of contacting him, I would ask him myself, but Lord knows where he is.
His phone number changed last year and he hasn’t bothered to call.
Maybe he doesn’t want to, and I try my best to respect that.
According to Alice, she is not in any position to care for her own children, although she did not go into details. Her intention in seeking me out was to find someone who might help, and if I cannot or will not, they will be handed over for voluntary placement into foster care.
I’m sixty-three years old. I lost Arthur over a decade ago. Perhaps I have no business taking on two young children at this stage in my life, but there is a part of me that can’t help wondering whether this was meant to be.
I often feel that I did not succeed in being the mother that I’d hoped to be. Maybe, in some small way, I can set this right.