Becoming a father is an enlightening experience. Becoming a step-father does not have that slow release of the experiencing being of your own creation, it's all in from the first moment. M and I celebrated Meme's second birthday when we were officially introduced. M called it her her third birthday, which threw me off, but apparently Morrocan's count time different. What am I saying? There is no doubt Moroccans tell time different, but the way they speed up birthdays is counter to the way they're constantly hours late, if a time to be there was stated at all.
I saw M before, at her sister's wedding, of course, and the next day, but that, I found out, was a very bad day despite the nuptials. We weren't formally introduced at the wedding but I saw her dancing and several times I chased Meme around, trying to corral her from leaving by the front door. I wonder if she remembers me from that day. Probably not, given all the lights and sweets and music. She remembers the black rabbit I gave her on her second though, and she remembers my silly crab walk from our first test drive as a family, in Baltimore.
It's strange, pretending like I'm her natural father, I am still not sure why M insists on it. Is it her shame. Personally, I think Meme and I would have the same, if not a stronger relationship if the truth were told. It certainly would be easier to tell the truth, to anyone except for the handful of people who know - her family, which will keep the secret until their dying day and have asked me to forge/alter certain documents to grease the lie, and my family, which for all intents and purposes, are drifting away from me. One day, Meme will pick up her birth certificate, see the father's name field is blank, and start to answer questions.
I did. One day I picked up my birth certificate and, in the boredom of standing in line at the DMV, started to read it all the way through. "Number of births: 4", "Number of live births: 3" This knowledge started my journey of finding out I was a twin, but not a twin, a knowledge that can have a profoundly twisted effect on a teen searching for life.
Whatever effect this experiment will have on Meme, I lay it at her mother's feet. I have argued numerous times to speak the truth to my daughter, after all she is my daughter now whether she likes it or not, DNA or not it's still my blood, sweat, and tears. But M insists on it. Technically, and only technically, M is Meme's mother, so I must abide by her wish, but I don't see how it won't end in tears. I wish I had a Muslim male friend to talk this through with. Did I mention I'm Muslim now?
