Life of a 40 years old single dad

Within this question lie, in reality, two others: how does one become a single parent, a question that nowadays is no longer surprising, and how does that parent become the father in a society where the role of the mother is sanctified, perhaps rightly so, while that of the father is minimized, even ridiculed?

As children, we dream of meeting someone with whom we will spend the rest of our lives, and whose children would be the biological extension of that bond. It is a beautiful myth, a lovely story, but rarely a true one, and even less so in our ultraliberal society.

But let us not place all the responsibility on society, for it is also ours to bear. The most important choice in a life is that of a partner and of the parent of our children. For some, this seems obvious. Yet most of us lack true awareness of it. Some endure more than they choose. Others, pressed by time, rush toward the first acceptable option. Still others, careless, believe they are guiding their lives by choosing a partner, when in fact they may only be slaves to their unconscious and their cowardice.

I belong to that last category, or at least I believe I do.

But before explaining the circumstances that led me to this situation, I would like to return to my childhood and my early adult years. Yes, I have the feeling this blog may take on the tone of a psychoanalytic confession.

I was born on a lost island in the Indian Ocean. An intense island of mountains and volcanoes, whose voluptuous shores slip gently into the sea. An island where the green of the forest blends with the blue of the sky, where white beaches give way to black sand. An island as colorful as the people who inhabit it.

From my childhood, I retain only a few images: my grandmothers, my aunt, women, mostly women, with my mother as the central figure. Men frightened me. Even when they were kind, I sensed in them a form of aggression, an underlying violence.

My father, for his part, is nonexistent, in the literal sense of the word: I am a bastard.

My mother occupies my childhood imagination; she is omnipresent, especially in her absences. I have few memories of affection from her. She loved me, I know she did, just in her own way.

It is not easy to raise a child alone, and I know what I am talking about. Perhaps it was somewhat easier for a woman at that time? I do not know. What I do remember, however, is that I quickly became her confidant…