David visited us in the hospital. He held Steven, brought a present, gave me a hug and went home again. In the very early weeks, he visited fairly often. A few times, for short periods, I attempted to leave father and son alone together, but it was never long before David would call me back in a panic.

Maybe I was expecting too much, maybe my frantic demands for any sign of fatherly love freaked him out. As the weeks went by, David’s visits became more erratic, promises were made and broken, and very little in the way of maintenance or support was offered. It made me angry, mother-bear-like, and mean. It made me sad, too, but my maternal instincts kicked in and the sadness was channelled into handy head-exploding aggression. Excellent.

I remember Sunday evenings spent watching the road, waiting to spot his car approaching. That was supposed to be visiting time, but he hardly ever came. Even though Steven was much too young to understand, each disappointment ate at my guts like battery acid. I was angry for Steven’s sake, heartbroken for his sake that his father didn’t care enough. To me, that’s what it came down to – he didn’t care enough about his child to be there for him when he said he would. I saw him occasionally with his friends or girlfriend. Partying, drinking, doing nineteen-year-old stuff. Except he wasn’t a typical nineteen-year-old any more than I was a typical fifteen-year-old. We were different. I’d accepted that. Why wouldn’t he?

I rarely mentioned money or maintenance. He was a student and I understood that he didn’t have lot of money. And he did bring clothes and toiletries a few times. Cotton-wool balls spring to mind. I like to think I was reasonable on that issue. In fact, I took great pains to be reasonable, so that nobody could ever accuse me of being the money-grubbing ex (at the age of fifteen!).

I wasn’t angry about all the responsibility resting on my shoulders. I didn’t want or need him to help me. All I wanted from him was to be a dad to his child. I don’t think he understood that part. Maybe he (and his family) thought I wanted something more, something for myself. I didn’t. I had the support of my own family. Not to mention the merry little band of alternate personalities in my head cheering me on (or bringing me down). I had my rigid self-discipline to fall back on when I felt shaky.

I didn’t need David. But Steven did. And still does.

I tried so hard to make David see that – too hard. So hard that when he did visit occasionally, we’d always end up fighting. I’d accuse him of being a terrible father, lecture him for being late, skipping visits or not phoning often enough. Realising I wasn’t getting through to him, I’d freak and became even more hostile. He’d get all defensive and we’d end up in I-Said-And-Then-You-Said fights. Never productive.

Still, for someone who doesn’t generally do confrontation, I managed to make myself heard. By the neighbours, too. That would be the night I chased after him when he left in a huff. That was the beginning of the end and I cringe when I think of it. I did everything wrong. (Guilt gland ticking over briskly.) I can’t help wondering how it might have been if I hadn’t lost my temper that night. Would David have stuck around? Would Steven have known his father all these years? The what-ifs keep me awake at night.

The fight probably started with those infamous words, “We need to talk”. Jeez, how many times have I said that in my life? No good ever comes of it, let me tell you. It started off as a standard David/Tracy conversation, but went downhill fast.

Tracy (grimfaced, holding baby in arms): “We need to talk.”

David (warily – he’s been here before): “Yes?”

Tracy (steam visibly beginning to escape from ears): “You said you’d be here at six. It’s after seven.”

David (doesn’t get the big deal): “Yeah, I’m sorry, hey! Couldn’t be helped. It won’t happen again, okay?”

Tracy (cheeks all red and blotchy, fists clenched, top of head unscrewing): “That’s what you said last time. And last week? Where were you? Something better come up? Did your child just slip your mind again? You can’t keep doing this, David. Steven needs you. When are you going to grow up?”

And so it went. Accusation and denial, sarcasm and defensiveness. The usual formula. Only, this time I lost it. I went psycho fishwife on his ass. You should have seen me.

“You don’t deserve to be his father!” I yelled at him. “Steven deserves so much better than you!” I was still holding Steven (holding my child while shouting at his father. Lovely, hey? Somebody, give the woman some curlers and a cigarette. I could be on My Name Is Earl) .

I’d pushed him too far.

“I don’t have to take this from you!” he said, angry now. Usually, he just stood there and took it, mumbling the occasional apology. Not this time. He stormed past me, out of Steven’s bedroom, and I chased after him, stopping only to put Steven down on the couch. He was so little, still swaddled in a blanket. I wonder sometimes if he has any memory of that night.

“Where are you going? Running away again?” I shouted from the doorway. He was halfway up the steps and nearly gone. I thought if I let him leave now, Steven would lose his dad forever. So I followed him out onto the pavement, and there we stood yelling at each other like Jerry Springer people. Not my finest moment.

But it made no difference. He left and didn’t come back for a long time.

Whenever he did, eventually, it never lasted. The gaps between visits and phone calls would become longer and longer, and eventually stop altogether. For a while. Then the whole cycle would start over, governed, perhaps, by David’s own guilt gland. I was always so grateful when he did come back, that while he behaved, I’d forget to be angry. I gave him a thousand second chances, because I didn’t want to be the one who denied Steven the father he needed.