Cathy Deutsch

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Word Count 1066

My daughter has no father. She was conceived via donor # 210 thirty years ago when I was with a woman determined to have a child. We procured semen via a facility in California. All semen was screened for disease or abnormalities as this was considered the most stringent facility in the country. After reviewing dozens of multiple-page profiles, which included physical attributes, family health history, education, hobbies, typical daily food intake, and a very thoughtful personal statement, we were convinced #210 was “the one.” He seemed the best match to our genetic history, complexion, and hair color. Of course, no photo or state of residence was included, but we did later find out he was from Long Island and a lawyer, which was exactly what my mother would have wanted!

 The semen was shipped to New York in cryogenic tanks frozen at just the right temperature to maintain viability. We did not use a turkey baster; a syringe was filled and gently inserted. By my accounting, this is not fatherhood, and we figured two moms were fine, if not better.

 We received these deliveries once a month for a year via FedEx. The delivery guy assumed it was horse semen, as we lived in pasture country, and this is the way some breeders impregnate their brood mares. Every time he came to the door to deliver the tank, he would quip,

”That's gonna make some horse happy.” I guess that's what I was. A happy broodmare. I've been called worse.

On the twelfth month, I conceived. Having been an avid equestrian, not willing to tempt fate, I hung up my black velvet helmet and stopped riding.

 I was ecstatic when my daughter was born into the hands of two remarkable midwives. The method of conception faded as we assumed the roles of parenthood as naturally as water bubbles from a spring. My girl looked like me from the earliest years, and the question of “father” faded into the distance as we clearly were mother and child down to our green eyes and slender, long-fingered hands. On many occasions, we did have to explain our circumstances, and she was always proud to say she had two moms. She even became the envy of her little friends, having two laps always ready to hold her while so many dads were in the wings like an auxiliary parent, circling, not quite sure what to do.

 We picked the sperm bank because it had pioneered an ID release program where the donor can select to be contacted by the child, and only the child, at age 18. We figured she should have that option as an adult. We did tell her about what we knew of #210, but it seemed to me she didn't think about it much.

I was wrong. She did fantasize about who and what her donor was like. Was he nice? Did her nose resemble his? Or perhaps parts of her nature? She did have a brief infatuation imagining her dad was Robin Williams. He was funny in Mrs Doubtfire, and a devoted very fancy father in The Bird Cage, and seemed a warm, nurturing man who honestly fit quite well into our untraditional family. Perhaps those films embracing queer life had some appeal but her illusion was dashed when she saw Williams in a film showing his very hairy back. No father of hers could possibly be a furry man-beast. He was off the list. She did write her college essay about her ruminations on Robin Williams, her hopes for having a dad she could name.

My partner and I broke up when she was eight, and consistent with our multiple-mom family model, she partnered with another woman, so my child now has three Jewish mothers. As though one was not enough!

I found myself dating men and eventually reunited with a beautiful man I had known since I was 17. John became hooked on my daughter one fall day as we walked the streets of Manhattan, and her little hand slipped into his as we crossed the busy streets. This tiny cupid's arrow with pigtails and missing front teeth pierced the heart of a man who had never wanted children. She does, after all these years, refer to him as “my dad.”

A few years ago, I found out that her donor had unexpectedly died from a brain aneurysm. I didn't know how to tell her as I knew it would be upsetting, especially as she was having some difficulty while away from home. John and I had gone to Cincinnati to visit her as she was acting in a play at a regional theater. I stupidly blurted out in a Mexican restaurant that he had passed. She ran to the bathroom in tears. She was shocked. I was shocked. All possibility was now impossible. I think she was holding on for the “one day when I'm ready” moment to reach out to him. I regret telling her about it this way. I had underestimated her silence.

When the pandemic lockdown happened in March of 2020, we drove to Brooklyn to bring her home to isolate in our almost rural area, thinking it would only be for a few months. We three hunkered together for an unexpected 14 months. For a trained working actor, this was devastating as her profession was literally halted. She had always written plays, so she turned to writing. She wrote every day for hours, digging deep into the shadow part during a time of crisis. The silence about her conception and sadness about her donor passing found its way into “The Donor,” a play that won the James Stevenson Comedic Play competition. It tells the story of a mom who attempts to hire an actor to impersonate her child’s donor because she is afraid to tell her he died. The parts were played by actors Sakina Jaffrey and Hamish Linklater. I guess art does imitate life. The play reveals the folly of her request and brings her to the conclusion that she must tell her daughter the truth.

“Honey, I need to talk to you about something. Sit down, sweetie. I messed up”, is the final line. As in the play, this is the regret I carry as I, too, messed up. But she does have a dad. And I think she forgives me.

Cathy is a freelance writer, essayist, former restaurant columnist, and word game enthusiast. She previously published an essay for The Inside Press, where she is a regular contributor, on her beloved Rolling Stones, In Honoring Charlie Watts, which got national attention and filled her cup. Cathy is also a regular feature contributor for Katonah Connect magazine. She has also been published in the online blog Storytelling at Work. She resides in Westchester County NY, with her partner John, their feisty Shih Tzu Ollie and is always looking forward to visits from her playwright daughter Avery who shares her love of language and storytelling.