Note: Please read “What is wrong with me” before reading this.
Some things are better left unsaid.
“Ahmad. It’s your turn.” The teacher calls my son up on stage. I grip the chair tightly, suddenly feeling anxiety as I see my son making up to the stage. He seems so scared I feel scared. As his Mom, I feel so proud that he gets to speak in front of such a big audience about his experience at this school but I also feel nervous that will he be able to do it? Can he do it?
These thoughts encircled my mind when I saw that my son was speechless. Probably because of fear. Or because of tension or stage fright but he didn’t have the capacity to speak. I knew I had to do something. I closed my eyes shut, remembered his dad and whistled as loudly as I could, as of how he would if he were alive, and then screamed with all the air that was in my lungs, “ATTA BOY! THAT’S MY SON YA’LL!! WO HOO!!” A sudden shiver vibrated through my spine so I quickly sat down. I had gotten everyone speaking and made the hall abuzz. Did I just accidentally create more problems for my son? I felt so guilty but he, being the great man he is, used the clever tactic of testing the mike to get everyone’s attention. It worked quite well in his favor.
Times like these I thought to myself; times like these were when I could truly appreciate my son. As much as of a truth that is, it’s also a lie that I have had to accept in these years he’s been with me. He’s a great son. An obedient one who listens to everything I say. He does his homework on time. Stays clean and healthy. Eats everything. He’s the perfect son one could wish for but sometimes when he tries to forcefully grab my attention it gets on my nerve and I have to shush him down and have some time to myself. Only if he knew, I think to myself. Only if he knew, would he be as such, would he behave the way he does? Or will he completely change? I shudder at the thought. It is too terrifying.
I want to tell him the truth. He must feel weird that his Mom is unable to provide him with love and affection like any other normal mother would or does. I want to tell him the truth but will he be able to the truth? He is still so young and innocent. Can he handle the truth? I do not know. Who does really?
Such things are better left unsaid and forgotten over time though that’s quite an impossibility. It’s better off in my conscience staying with me till death.
I never ever want him to hear a whiff of him. I think no matter the age, it’ll just be too much for him to bear. Though I do wonder that when he asks, that Mom, am I adopted or anything?… how will I reply? Because he isn’t adopted. No, he is my child after all. My own flesh and blood. The only issue is…
How am I supposed to tell my child that his face reminds me of his father’s murderer and my rapist?