The relationship I have with my mother and father—if you could even call what we have a genuine relationship—has always been strained.
With two highly successful criminal defense lawyers as parents, I spent more time alone than I did in their company. Whether it was long hours at the office or a late-night hookup with the people they were cheating on each other with, I was always set on the back burner, left to simmer and wait for even a sliver of their attention.
It’s been years since they’ve retired, yet I can’t say that’s made much of a difference when it comes to spending time together. In all honesty, it doesn’t bother me as much as it used to. By the time their jobs no longer held top priority in their lives, we were strangers. They had already missed too many years to make up for, left too much space between us. I’m content with the once-a-year meeting my mother plans every Thanksgiving.
Cooper barely knows his grandparents, but I know that’s for the best. It’s better not to give them the power to hurt him down the road when they inevitably find something wrong with him or his actions in the future.
They were very outspoken about how disappointed there were when I brought a two-year-old boy to their door, terrified out of my mind and shaking in the rain. I wouldn’t have gone to them at all had I not been in such a terrified place after Beth, Cooper’s mother and an old college fling, found me at a bar and confessed that I was a father to a son I had no idea existed. But my mom was still my mom, and all I wanted was a hug from the woman who carried me for nine months.
Instead, I got to listen to an hour-long rant on how negatively my actions could affect our family and, more importantly, their careers, while cradling a sleeping child in my arms that I had no idea was mine just hours prior.
It’s safe to say they were no help to me. They didn’t know the first thing about being parents, and I beat myself up for days afterward for thinking that these circumstances would have made my mother’s maternal instincts come to light. But it’s hard to find something that doesn’t exist.
As I look down at Cooper now, watching as he misses the dribbles of melted ice cream as they flow down his waffle cone and drip onto his swim trunks, I can’t imagine being anywhere else, missing out on these moments.
I grab a napkin from the stack between us and hand it to him. He flashes me an innocent, toothy grin before patting his shorts dry and making quick work of licking up all the melted ice cream from his cone.
We both smell like sunscreen and are wearing matching Warriors hats, but his is on backward in that typical cool-guy fashion. I’ve been fighting the urge to flip it around since we got to the beach.
“How is your hat supposed to protect your face from the sun if it’s on backwards?”
Cooper rolls his eyes while crunching on the last of his ice cream cone. The umbrella I stuck in the sand the moment we picked a spot on the beach is doing a good enough job of keeping the majority of the sun away, but I would rather be safe than sorry. Not to mention, Cooper is a massive baby when it comes to his sunburn pain tolerance.
“Don’t pretend like you don’t wear your hat backwards too, Dad.”
I tap the brim of my hat, the one facing forward. “Not in the sun I don’t.”
“I’ll flip mine around when we actually go in the sun, okay?” he offers, sounding mighty annoyed with this conversation.
“Deal.” My phone beeps from my pocket, and I pull it out, sighing in relief when I see the message lighting up the screen.
Beth: I’m here!
Me: Look for the blue starfish umbrella
“Your mom is here,” I tell Cooper and put my phone away again. He nods once, wiping his hands on his Iron Man swim trunks. There’s a slight hesitation in his eyes, and it makes my stomach twist.
Cooper and Beth’s relationship is . . . fragile.
Beth has struggled with bipolar disorder since she became pregnant with Cooper, but it wasn’t until he was two and she faced a life-altering manic episode that she was properly diagnosed. Once she was, she brought him to me, asking for help, and not a day goes by where I’m not grateful for that.
Shortly after, she admitted herself into a psychiatric hospital, where she spent two years recovering and coming to terms with her past and what she could expect from her future.
By the time she left the hospital, Cooper was four. It took her another year after her release to feel confident enough in herself to reach out to me and ask to see him again. But it had been years, and Coop had grown into a whole person, one who felt betrayed and angry and refused to believe anything other than his mother abandoned him. That she didn’t want him.
It didn’t help Cooper’s viewpoint on the situation when Beth granted me sole custody of him, with the exception of her weekly visits. I easily agreed to the visitation, knowing she was doing something she felt necessary for herself and Cooper.
She never needed to do what she did, but she did it with the strength of a mother who wanted what was best for her little boy, and at the time, without stable ground beneath her feet or a family to fall back on, she saw that as me.
She’s grown in leaps and bounds since then, and we’re figuring out life as it comes. As a real family.
“Hi, guys!”
Cooper and I both turn at the same time to see Beth come bouncing over to our spot on the beach. She’s bright-eyed and bushy-tailed today, and I’m glad. Those are her best days.
Sharp blue eyes catch mine and hold for a moment as she silently lets me know she’s okay. I nod and grab Cooper’s shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. His nerves are heavy in the early summer air.
“Aren’t you two just the cutest guys on the beach with your matching hats. I feel like I missed the superhero memo, though. Next time, I’ll come prepared in my best Marvel outfit to match those awesome Iron Man shorts,” Beth chirps when she reaches us. She’s wearing a pale yellow sundress today and slip-on sandals. There’s even a bit of colour to her usual pale skin, like she’s spent a few hours out in the sun.
“Would you be Wanda or Black Widow?” Cooper asks her.
Beth hums for a moment, scratching her chin. “Wanda.”
He nods, accepting that answer, and then turns to me as his mom drops her bag beside our small cooler and sits on his opposite side.
Cooper’s mouth twists to the side before he asks, “The Winter Soldier or the Falcon?”
“Crap, buddy. That’s a tough one.”
He shrugs. “I know who I would pick.”
I tip my chin at him. “Well, don’t leave me in suspense. Who’s your pick?”
“Nuh-uh. You first so I know you aren’t just copying me.”
“Fine. The Winter Soldier.”
Cooper’s lips part in surprise, and he scrunches his face like he’s genuinely appalled at my answer. “The Falcon has Cap’s shield, Dad.”
“Spoilers!” Beth shrieks, covering her ears. “I haven’t finished Endgame yet.”
“What?” Cooper and I cry at the same time. I peer at her over Cooper’s head and say, “Looks like you have homework.”
“I’d say,” she agrees.
A strong gust of wind blows past us, and Beth is quick to swipe her long blackish-brown hair out of her face and secure it with a hair tie. I’m about to look away and double-check that none of our stuff has blown away when I spot a swirl of black ink on her wrist, protected with a clear wrapping. Curiosity nips at me, and I tilt my head at her.
“Cooper, why don’t you go test out the water? You know I’m a big wuss when it comes to cold water,” she says.
He laughs and starts to stand before brushing off the sand from his legs and hands. “Sure. Be right back!”
After watching him jog down the beach and cautiously dip his toes in the soft waves at the shoreline, I twist myself around until I’m facing her and my toes are only a hair length away from her legs. She grins at me, extending her arm and offering me a full view of the inside of her wrist.
“When did you get this?” I ask, gently grabbing her wrist and bringing it closer.
A beautifully drawn daffodil covers years’ worth of self-harm scars. My throat grows swollen when I see Cooper’s full name and birth date written in the petals.
“Daffodils symbolize rebirth. A fresh start. And, well, Cooper was mine,” she whispers.
My eyes burn, but I blink away the wet before it escapes. I brush my thumb over the slightly shaded flower. “That’s amazing, Beth. Truly.”
“It breaks my heart that Cooper doesn’t know how much I love him,” she admits.
“He will. He needs you in his life, so as long as you continue to do what you’re doing, keep trying the way you are, he’ll feel that.”
She laughs, the sound jagged, almost pained. “Cooper doesn’t need me any more than you do.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask, dropping her wrist, my eyes wide. “He definitely can’t handle you disappearing again, and I’ve done this on my own for so long, Beth. It’s been nice having someone to talk to that cares about him the same way I do. You’ve already made so much progress in your relationship. It might not feel like it now, but it will happen.”
She sniffles then, and my muscles lock up as my brain loses communication with my body. “I didn’t mean to make you cry. I’m sorry,” I apologize. “Shit, I feel like an asshole.”
Shaking her head, she huffs angrily. “Don’t apologize. They aren’t bad tears. They’re happy ones. Thank you, Adam. Sometimes it just gets . . . too much. I know this is all my fault, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less.”
I reach over and squeeze her knee instead of hugging her like I want to do on instinct. Seeing someone upset has to be one of the toughest things, especially when you know nothing you do or say can help take away their pain.
If it were anybody else, I wouldn’t have stopped myself from wrapping my arms around them and holding them tight, but Beth isn’t everyone else. She never has and never will be. Our boundaries are clear-cut, and although I’ve never thought of her in the same light I did during that brief stint in university, I refuse to risk blurring them and destroying the current relationship we’ve all been building together.
Beth and I aren’t meant to be, and I’ve known that for over a decade now.
“You didn’t ask to be born with a mental illness, Beth. You made the right decision when you came to me and decided to put yourself first. He’ll understand that when he gets older.”
I can’t even think about what would have happened if she hadn’t found me outside that bar and brought Cooper to me without feeling sick to my stomach. We both know she made the right decision, even if it hurts.
“You don’t think he’s going to hate me for giving you full custody? He won’t look at that and view it as a betrayal? Because some days, that’s exactly what it feels like,” she confesses. Her voice is sad, and it hits me right in the chest. “I stand with my choice. I believe it was the right decision—it still is. I couldn’t provide for him the way you could, or at all, even, and the chance of me losing myself again will always be there. But having him so close yet so far feels worse than being bipolar in the first place.”
I try not to show how shocked her words leave me. Beth has openly talked about being bipolar only a handful of times with me over the past few years since she was diagnosed, and even then, it’s never been in such a public place or in such a casual tone.
She’s been doing so well, though, that maybe I shouldn’t be this surprised. Her acceptance of her disease speaks volumes to her growth.
“He could never hate you. You’re his mom,” I say.
A small smile pulls at her mouth as she nods. She blinks a few times before sucking in a deep breath and standing up. I look up at her questioningly.
“If we don’t go join him in the water, he might forget about us altogether.” She laughs.
Very true. In full agreement, I stand and wait for her as she pulls her sundress over her head, leaving her in a very modest yellow one-piece suit, before walking beside her toward the water and the boy floating on his back a few feet past the rocky shore.
I drag my toes in the sand and smile. Our family might be a bit unconventional, but I’m damn happy anyway.
