I find myself living a lie. I’ve intentionally misled my five-year-old daughter on countless occasions, weaving a tangled web of untruths that borders on deceit. Each day, I engage in the usual fabrications that come with being a single parent—like claiming the toy store is closed or that if she doesn’t hurry, I might leave without her. I’ve even perpetuated the myth of a jolly man in a red suit who travels the world delivering gifts to children, misleading her into thinking that he brings joy to every kid. When she innocently asked why Santa doesn’t visit children in need, I stumbled, realizing the entire story rested on a shaky foundation. “Um, nevermind,” I said, quickly diverting her attention.
I’ve become adept at creating narratives, whether it’s about the existence of magical elves or the notion that America has more princesses than Europe, all residing in Orlando. But there’s one narrative I’ve constructed that most parents will never have to face.
Like many parents, I lie awake at night, consumed by worries about raising a child—concerns about finances, choices, and her well-being. Yet, my situation is different: the little girl I’m nurturing isn’t biologically mine. I didn’t give birth to her, nor have I legally adopted her. She is a ward of the state, and while I gaze into her bright blue eyes, it’s hard to see her as just a statistic, but she is. So am I. The most significant story I’ve crafted revolves around our relationship. She calls me “Mommy” and believes I gave birth to her, thinking that her biological father and I were once in a romantic relationship. The truth is, that’s miles away from reality.
The odds were never in favor of me having a biological child, especially considering I’m gay. The idea of becoming a parent seemed like a distant fantasy until my seventeen-month-old niece, Lily, came to live with me. Instead of emulating Kirstie Alley’s character from Look Who’s Talking, I felt more like Diane Keaton in Baby Boom, but without the hefty paycheck or a booming baby food business.
In our initial weeks together, Lily’s nursery school teacher suggested she call me “Mommy,” as all the other kids did. I hadn’t thought about what title I might assume, but I realized it would be comforting for her to fit in, to share that sense of sameness. It felt strange at first, but now I can’t imagine her referring to me as anything else. Well, except for the occasional “poophead,” which I’ve gotten used to as well.
As of February 24th, Lily will have been with me for four years. I have navigated this journey mostly alone, without co-parenting support or nearby grandparents. My life has revolved around her needs; I’ve learned diaper changes, car seat installations, and soothing her to sleep. I traded my social life for playdates and bought a house based on a good school district. I even acquired a cat when Lily was two, so we could have a family pet. She named him Max after a character from her favorite story.
Over these years, I’ve discovered much about myself—like how long I can endure the Barney theme before I lose my mind or how many days I can go without a shower. But more importantly, I’ve learned the depth of love I can feel for another person. The love I have for Lily is vast and profound, so much so that I would sacrifice anything to protect her.
There’s a saying that no one can truly know if the purple they see matches someone else’s perception of purple. When Lily was three, if I asked her a question she couldn’t answer, she would say, “I can’t know,” instead of “I don’t know.” This struck me as deeply insightful; some things in life are beyond our comprehension. I’ve occasionally wondered if my feelings for Lily mirror those of any other mother towards her biological child. I’ve decided that comparing emotions only steals joy, and I firmly believe my love for her is just as genuine—if not more.
It is this love that drives me to maintain the elaborate narrative between us. To the outside world, I am her mother. I care for her, comfort her, and share in her joys. But this narrative will eventually require an adjustment. One day, she’ll inquire about the circumstances of her birth, and I won’t be able to deflect with stickers or fairy tales. I find myself hesitating, wanting to preserve her innocence a while longer. But I know that day is coming when I must sit down with her and explain that while labels may differ, our love remains unchanged. It will be my moment to come out to her. Having experience with coming out, I suspect I’ll shed a few tears. As for her reaction—well, that’s uncertain. I hope she doesn’t see me as a fraud and perhaps just opts to call me “poophead” more often instead.
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In summary, the journey of parenting a child who isn’t biologically mine has been filled with complexities and profound love. While I maintain an illusion for her comfort, I also prepare for the day when truth must prevail. Regardless of our circumstances, the bond we share transcends conventional labels.