How I Didn’t Meet My Father

Kids, this is the story about how I didn’t meet my father. I mean, it’s not the story; it’s a bunch of recollections of memories about my father, whom I never saw. I was raised by my mother and my godmother, and since the beginning of my life, I have been curious about the man who produces the fastest sperm that gave ME!

I asked away, I listened to the stories and even the lies about this man, and let me introduce you to the story of my life about my father:

When I was eight years old, I had to write a paper about my origins. I wrote a few questions to ask my mother, and somehow in the middle of that survey, my mother thought that it would be good to tell an eight-year old that I was made on the stairs of our building because they couldn’t wait for a proper bed or inside of something private!
I have always been a very curious and creative person, and my mother didn’t realise that she gave me a nuclear bomb and that I was an expert at making them blow.

So, you can only imagine what happened the next day when, in front of everyone in the class, I started the presentation of my paper with the sentence “Everything started when my mom and my dad couldn’t wait to make me, and they did it at the stairs of my building. That must have hurt. Anyway, after that, I was born with blonde hair and blue eyes……. “

My mother got a call from the teacher, and right now it is so much fun to think about. Not so much fun for me at age eight, when I got grounded without my Tamagochi. Spoiler alert: Fred died two days later.

After losing Fred, I really became careful about my stories that involved my family.

Well, that didn’t last that long, and two years later, I was pretty sure my mom wanted to return me to the mother ship.

I entered fifth grade and had a lot of new subjects to study, and at every presentation class we have to take care of a few personal surveys with our address, ID number, mother and father’s names, you know, stuff like that.

Stuff like that makes my mind really creative.

I didn’t know my father’s name, like I had a name in my head but wasn’t sure about it. It could be a weird thing to say, because I had a good memory, but when it came to my father, I was really selective about the things I remembered. So, seven classes and here are a few, non-real examples, of what I wrote in the “Father’s Name” area:

“Charles James Taylor”

“Taylor Charles Hector”

“Thor Micro Taylor”

“K. H. Taylor”

“Miguel F. U. Taylor”

“Teresa Taylor Toby”

“Yury Gomes Taylor”

My mother got a call… you know the drill by now. I had Pokemon cards, a Nintendo 64, a Harry Potter Lego Hogwarts Castle, and honestly, so much more. This time my mom got creative as well. I had to write the real name a hundred times on an A4 sheet until I remembered it forever. It did work.

After these two minor accidents, my mother just tried to give me more info about my father because, until that moment, I had three things: the fastest sperm won the race at the stairs of my building; the name of the man was so easy, but I didn’t have the chance to win a Charizard Shiny card because I couldn’t remember; and the fact that he was a drunk man all the time (in my village, alcoholism was invented ten years later) So, not much.

My mother, really proud of her next move, made the ultimate introduction to daddy. A picture! I had never seen the man’s face until that moment, so I was pretty excited. But the picture, oh the picture…

A man posing on top of a big ass rock, wearing only a black thong with a cigarette and sunglasses for style.

That’s it. That’s the only picture I have of the man. I was ten, now I’m thirty. I wasn’t shocked, not a little bit, but now I’m traumatised.

And there you go, kids. This is how I didn’t meet my father. Thank god!