Just when I was beginning to believe I was someone people could respect, I find I am nothing more than a bastard; that the man who fathered me was an irresponsible s.o.b., a lowlife who thinks nothing of having sex with his best friend’s wife. If Paul was overseas fighting a war, why was this coward working in a hotel and not in the armed forces? Was he a drunk, the same as my mother was? I hate him. Hate him.
Just when I was beginning to have a loving relationship with my mother, I find myself hating her for not taking responsibility for her actions. Four times! There may not have been the pill in those days but there were condoms.
I find myself feeling disgusted with her. Worse, I cannot trust that she’s telling me the truth, because she’s changed her story several times over the years. First there was only one boy born out of wedlock. Now she says there were two. Then she tells me all four children are from different fathers — not one the child of Paul. I don’t believe a word of it. There have been times when she was blind drunk and told a different story. Will I ever know who I really am?
Years ago, in the late 60s, I was called to her apartment by her boyfriend and had to take her to the hospital to have her stomach pumped.
In the ambulance, she thought she was dying. She was delirious and talked about the man who was supposedly my father. She said he was Jewish and that she had loved him all her life. Several weeks ago she gives me a name: Marcel Lebrun. Sounds very French Canadian to me. Where the hell is the truth and what is the use of asking her?
April 24, 1999 (Computer Journal)