and a whole new life in which, I came to understand, my sons simply did not feature. The last photo he had of them was from their christening because he never took another. He never came to another thing.
So I raised them. Alone, on a single income, through every ordinary heroic thing single parents do and no one sees. The croup night in the ER when I was so tired I cried in the parking lot. The science fairs I stayed up helping with. The birthdays, the concerts, the
four thousand dinners, the homework, the fevers, the two boys who needed a father and had instead a mother determined that they would never, ever feel the lack of one as a lack of love.
And here is the thing about my sons: they are extraordinary. Not because I pushed them — because they are, and because a home with one tired, devoted parent who shows up for everything apparently grows better children than a home with a father who shows up for nothing. They are brilliant and kind and funny
