Once there was a man named Santino who didn’t have a family — so he made one up.
“Maya”, he said to his wife, “would you mind getting me a piece of the cake you made today?”
“Certainly,” she replied. He got up and got himself some cake.
“Yosef,” he said to his son, let me see your homework. Ah, you are doing a paper on the sociology of interracial intimacy. One thought is that you focus on the varying interpretations of father craft within these families.”
He pulled out his tablet and looked up several websites on the sociology of fatherhood within the bourgeois family.
“Interesting,” he said to himself, “the pervasive maternal dominance when it come to parenting.”
“Lilit,” he said to his daughter, “If you and your sister Saki would like, I will take you out this evening to get ice cream.”
That evening he went out and got himself an ice cream. He sat alone eating it.
“Saki,” he said to his youngest daughter, looking up from his ice cream. “How are you doing with that boy at school, the one who told you he liked you.”
He sat quietly for a moment. Another family sat quietly nearby.
“Well,” he said gently, “this can be quite sensitive. I wouldn’t say that to him, but it would be best to be honest. You don’t want to lead him on, give him false hope. That isn’t kind. It’s important in life to be honest, but not too honest, if you know what I mean?”
Santino looked up. The nearby family — a father, mother son and two daughters — were all staring at him.
He looked at them, and catching the father’s eye, said in a clear voice. “The fathering, it just never seems to end, does it?”
The other father, not knowing what to say, looked down.
Santino, looking around the room, smiled, and said to himself, “I just love being a father.”