Long-lost daddy: meeting an estranged child

One Saturday afternoon in the spring of 2002, I walked into a pub off London’s Oxford Street to meet my teenage son. To the casual onlooker, the scenario could not have seemed more commonplace. We must have appeared indistinguishable from any other father and son, except that if someone had eavesdropped on the conversation, they would have realised that this particular dad and boy had more to catch up on than normal.

That was the day I met my 17-year-old son for the first time. For both of us, there was an entire lifetime to catch up on. But how did it come to that?

Rewind 17 years to a time when, aged 23, I was working as an editor for a London-based music paper. One day, I was sitting at my desk, trying to think of something suitably waspish to say about the latest U2 album. The phone rang, and I received the news that every man dreads hearing. A woman with whom I had recently enjoyed a fleeting, no-strings sexual relationship was calling me to say that she was pregnant.

My first reaction to hearing Debra’s news was one of absolute shock. I had no earthly idea how to respond. I didn’t even have the presence of mind to say, “But you told me you were on the pill…”

Debra did all the talking. Her message was unambiguous. She wanted to have the baby. If I wanted to be involved, that was fine. If I chose not to be involved, that was not quite so fine, but my decision would be respected.

For weeks afterwards, I walked around as if in a daze, almost paralysed in the face of my dilemma. I canvassed the opinions of friends, both male and female. I was advised that, if I chose not to be involved, I’d be making the biggest mistake of my life. I was also told that, if I decided to be involved, I’d be making the biggest mistake of my life.

Surprisingly – to me – it was mainly my female friends who were urging me to abdicate parental responsibility and effectively walk in another direction.

I wrestled with the first crucial grown-up decision of my life, but I was no more capable of imagining myself as a father than picturing myself as an Arctic explorer or a circus lion-tamer. Six months into her pregnancy, Debra rang me and asked if I’d made up my mind. I was nowhere close to deciding, but I had to tell her something. And so, at that moment, I opted to walk away.

The years rolled by. At 27 I got married. Nine months later, my wife gave birth to a boy called William. Meanwhile, on the other side of the world in Sydney, Dylan, my lost son, had just turned four. He was often on my mind, but rarely in any concrete way.

I watched William grow. I saw him take his first steps, form his first words, start becoming himself. The more he became himself, the more I started to think of Dylan in less abstract form. Most of all, as my relationship with William deepened and broadened, I’d speculate about how Dylan felt about growing up without knowing his natural father.

By 2001, I was a divorcee and single dad (see Bringing up baby solo). In the summer of that year I awoke one morning to find an e-mail from Debra in my inbox. She’d stumbled across a message I’d left on a website three years previously, seeking to make contact with her and Dylan.

A few days later, I found myself talking to her on the telephone. “Dylan is in the other room watching TV,” she remarked casually. “Do you fancy a chat?” That was the start of it all, a process that gradually led to our first meeting and the cementing of our father-son relationship.

From time to time, I find myself explaining the story of how it came about that I first met my son so late in life. When I do, there’s still a part of me that expects to be taken to task for walking away all those years ago. But that’s never the case.

Women, in particular, react with tremendous sympathy, telling me that I should be proud of the fact that I finally acted when I did, and proud of the fact that I now have such a loving relationship with my long-lost son. I also meet men who have experienced similar situations and I listen to their reasons and their excuses for not making contact with their kids.

And now, with the benefit of my own experience, I’m able to say with hard-won authority: “Don’t wait. Get in touch. Because, if you don’t, you’ll be making the biggest mistake of your life.”