Out of his imagination
When my father decided have me, he worked hard to convince my mother it was the right thing to do. “We have the one child already,” she said, with some trepidation, (my sister; her firstborn; the one she’d had years before, without him) as she knew his response: “I need; I want the one that’s only mine!” I was conceived. Eventually. She said to him: “I’ll have another, but only if it happens within two years of the one I’m carrying.”
It didn’t, and I am semi-alone. I’m semi- a sibling; semi- a cousin: I’m the wrong generation, too old and too young.
It used to bother me. The “odd one out” is never at peace. The one who wanted me, my father, turns out not to have wanted “Me” at all, but some idea of “Me”; of who “Me” could become. He’d thought he could mold this young life into “mini-Him”. I’d take over the family business; I’d become a fine craftsman; I’d do these things because they make sense, no?
Although I do like to tinker and poke at mechanical things, it’s strictly not-for-profit. This father of mine, the one who wanted me, is long gone. He learned fulfilment in other ways. I am no longer the odd one out. I’ve become the odd one “in”, and I am at peace.