Kinship.

�How old is your son this year?� Uncle Choo asked. The question was followed by an awkward silence while the father hesitated and stared at the son.

�He�s eight now!� he hazarded a loud guess as he laughed and patted on his son�s back like a father doting on his son. John was confused. He was sure he was nine, that�s why his mum bought him all those primary three textbooks and brought him to school when it reopened the other week.

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I had coffee with John the other evening. John�s been one of my best friends for the longest time and he�s always had an interesting relationship with his dad. I am being polite and understated here when I use the word �interesting�. He once told me, �that man�s my father,� while pointing at the said person and continued with, �at least that�s what my birth cert says.� We were only twelve years old then.

John had always shared with me about his family life, or rather the lack of it. His dad was never around and once on his tenth birthday, his father couldn�t remember which primary level he was in then. He never remembered his birthday, or any other thing in his life anyway. It was mostly his mother who took care of him since young. As a capable and independent woman, in John�s world, Mum was his mother-figure and father-figure.

On the other hand, father-person is a sort of sperm-donor. It�s the kind of person in your life who jerks off.

The irony is, John�s father who never seemed to be around, who was always (and still is) too busy with god-knows-what out of the house now has the time to help his friends� children. Recently, his dad had gone and be a guarantor for a Chinamaid�s son studying in Singapore. He�s currently helping another friend�s daughter apply for scholarship/bursary for University studies.

�What a laugh!� he exclaimed, �for one who is never around for his kids, he sure is helpful for someone else�s!� I could sense the bitterness in John�s voice and see the pained confusion in his eyes. He took a gulp of his caf� latte. I just wanted to hug him and say things in life aren't always perfect.

But we find ways to live through it. We�re survivors.

I say �we� because to a certain extent, our lives, John and I, mirror each other. But that�s another story for another time. Right now, John�s son is clambering up his lap to entice him to play. You can tell from one look that Junior is adopted. After all John is still single and is never one to fool around.

And the fact that Junior is a blue-eyed blonde while my friend is a Chinese.

Junior is John�s adopted son from Romania. Junior is also the love of his life. You can tell from the way he picks Junior up to toss him in the air and how they enjoy each other�s laughing company. The ever stoic John willingly becomes the son�s clown. John also takes care of his daily living, both school and at home. It was through Junior that John became a strong advocate for childhood vaccination. Something he learnt through all the visits to the pediatric clinic.

Now attending Preparatory Classes, Junior is sent to school before John goes to work and picked up from after-school care when he knocks off. I once caught John in their usual evening routine of dinner, homework, shower and bed for Junior. I had a sheepish grin on my face when I saw John tucked Junior into bed with �The Little Engine That Could�.

Of course, I was over at John�s for our usual Friday beer and nuts. But I could never wipe off that image of a normally stoic John who becomes a gentle reader to his son as he retells the tale of a courageous and generous anthropomorphic train engine who tries its best.

That, there and then and certainly beyond, is unquestionably a FatherMother who surely thinks he can. He also definitely is.

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I was discussing with another friend of mine the other day. I shared with him about how society at large had confused sexual identity with gender roles. He, on the other hand, insisted that the ideal family unit must have a father and a mother, no other way about it.

I looked at him and thought, �Try and tell that to John.�

Or even Junior for that matter.