A Glass of Water in the Face
By J.S.Danskin

They said they'd take him away from me eventually . . . but I didn't believe it. I'd look at Brendan and say, "Don't you worry, lad. You and Dad are sticking together forever." It wasn't a spite thing, at least not on my part. I wasn't trying to keep him away from her, because I'm not a spiteful person. That was Cara's department, not mine, I only wanted to be close to my boy . . . and I was. Brendan and me, we had some good times. But deep down a voice always nagged me. "You're living a dream, Will, but it's only a dream. Sooner or later, man, you gonna wake up and taste the Martini."

Too bloody right I'd woken up. I'd woken up suddenly, and now I feel like
I've been asleep for the past twenty years . . . or rather, seven.
That's how old Brendan is, he's eight in November. Brendan was my
dream and I'd woken up from it, feeling I had to pinch myself . . .
just to make sure. And now I'm sure. Brendan's gone, and from now on
it's just going to be me in my flat. It's only going to be me and my
dead-end job cleaning for Mrs Boyd. It's only going to be me and the
spare bedroom with all my son's toys scattered around all over the
floor. I remember where he left his Gameboy and the teddy bear I
bought him when he was born. I can remember where he sat on the floor
playing with his toy soldiers, because it was only just last night
when I walked into his room at eight o'clock and ruffled his hair. I
told him to go to bed and he looked at me imploringly and begged,
"Five more minutes, Dad!" Five more minutes. It seems like the
shortest time in the world; not really much at all. Yet funnily
enough, I'd give anything to have another five minutes to know my son
was truly mine.

I tried to hate Cara just then for taking Brendan away from me, but she
only wanted what I did, really. We both wanted Brendan, our boy we had
together. I'd been with her all the way through thick and thin, I'd
married her when we found out she was pregnant, and just to respect
her family. Not mine. I couldn't care less about all this disgrace in
a child born out of wedlock. I just wanted a happy family, and I was
aware of the sacrifices I was making, but they didn't seem to matter
at all. They did now, but I had all the time in the world to pay back
the bills and holiday debts, never mind the mortgage on the house
she's living in with my son. My son. Not just hers. Mine.

It's a nice house, too. Very spacious, with three bedrooms. One for
Brendan, one for Cara, and another for any other things she might
want: a spare bedroom or a playroom for my son. Her son. It's nothing
to do with me. As of today, I'm a part of both Brendan and Cara's
past. I only help to pay for them to live in the house. I don't have
to, but as I say I'm not a spiteful person, and Cara can't cope with
Brendan on her income alone. Not the way he's supposed to be looked
after, anyway. My special little boy. Mine, but not with me anymore.
They took him away this morning after Cara burst into tears during the
court session. What I had to say after that didn't matter; Cara's
crocodile tears had won over the judge easily. A few salty droplets
and well-placed words meant I would only ever be a waste of my son's
Sunday afternoons until he was old enough to tell me to piss off. When
would that be? Sixteen? Seventeen? Eighteen? Twelve? I'd promised my
son the world . . . and I'd let him down. I'd only ever be Brendan's
father from now on; never Dad. I was just twenty-three sets of
chromosomes, one of them a determining "Y" which had produced the most
beautiful boy in the world.

The day seems colder, now. Of course I knew the inevitable outcome
beforehand - it's always the mums, isn't it? - but there was still the
shred of my faith that prayed for my son to be with me. Today the
judge decided I was the unfit parent and not Cara. When I began to
protest - a human instinct I suppose - the judge silenced me.

"It's in your son's best interests, Mr Donaldson," he patronised, but I'd
already shut up, the pleading look in my son's dark eyes was enough to
silence even the most rebellious of speakers. Instead, I nodded and
winked at my son. Somehow everything will be okay, I thought, but they
won't. Cara'll find another man and he'll be Brendan's dad. I'm just
Sunday Afternoon.

Jesus Christ, my dream had swiftly become a nightmare from which there was
no escape. Sunday afternoons were not enough, but I'd live for them in
the hope that my son may still love me in years to come. He's only
seven, I can't blame him when he forgets me, I can only blame myself
for not being Brendan's mother instead of his father. Jesus Christ,
I've woken up to reality and I don't like what I'm seeing. God saw the
world and it was good; but I see it as a rotting ruin, nothing but a
mouldy apple core. Jesus Christ, I'd woken up. I'd woken up like a man
who's just had a glass of freezing cold water thrown in his face, and
I'd never sleep again.