Open Letter to a One Night Stand

Dear SD,
You are an occasional subject of conversation in my house. Under normal circumstances I would not even remember your name. You and I were friends for a brief period in 1989/1990. I don’t remember the names of our other friends, although for about five months, we were all inseparable. The only reason I remember you at all is because we were sexually intimate one time, again, very briefly. So briefly in fact, that you were done before I could tell you I was not on the pill. As a result of that otherwise completely forgettable, drunken encounter, I have a seventeen year old son, who looks exactly like your brother. My husband asked me recently how you could not care if I was protected against pregnancy. I said it was because it wouldn’t have affected you at all if I got pregnant. I sort of just threw it out there. After I thought about it for just second, I realized I was right. My having a child has for all intents and purposes has not affected you at all. I remember a phone conversation with you, about ten years ago, in which you told me you though about “your son” every day, and every thing you did in your life was to bring you to a place where you could have something to offer him. I recommended a card on his birthday, but you said you couldn’t afford a stamp. Let’s just say, for the sake of argument, that you do think about the kid, oh, let’s just say, once a week. I think I am being damn generous here, but okay, once a week. When he was growing up that equaled 21 meals I had been responsible for. Ten outfits I had washed, one set of sheets I washed. When he was much younger, it was three episodes of night terrors that I got up in the middle of the night to deal with. On some weeks it was four or five times he didn’t make it to the toilet to barf, four or five messes on the carpet my husband or I would have to clean up. When he was 13, it was six times I cried myself to sleep, wondering if I had done all I could to raise him the right way. Now that he is seventeen, I am crying again, wondering again, “Have I done all I could?” You will never convince me that having a son means anything to you or your lifestyle. When I told you I was pregnant, I told you I didn’t want anything from you, and you could be as involved as you want. Every time we moved, I made sure you knew where we were. I made sure, through your mother, that you always had a phone number for our family. I have not had the same consideration from you. When my son was young, I cared. I had the most amazing, most beautiful child in the world, (like every mother) and I could not understand why the one other person in the world who had a genetic link to him didn’t care to know him. Because I was in a relationship with someone, the same someone, since my kid was seven months old, it didn’t matter for long. Having a child has affected your life not at all. And yet I know you claim him. You tell people you have a son. You asked me during one of only two phone conversations we have ever had if I would consider giving him your last name. Were you fucking serious? You were.
When I was told I was pregnant by a tired distracted doctor working in a medical clinic, he also told me I was in the process of miscarrying. I went immediately to a friend’s house, and waited in bed, trying to keep the little zygote I was carrying safe. I began changing my life. I did not want a baby, but I was compelled to act like a mother. I quit Diet Coke and smoking and drinking. I started drinking milk by the gallon. I worked until one week to the day before he was born. Every minute, every decision is about how it affects my family, of which, he was the first member. You have nerve. You did nothing, NOTHING to contribute to this child except have sex with me, 17 years ago. Your life has not changed at all. What is that like? Because my life has never been the same.