“It was important to me to be in Celine’s life,” he says. “It’s weird—even though neither of us knew our dad, really, I felt a connection to her. Every time she saw me, her little face would light up. Her chubby arms reaching for me, making grabby hands until I picked her up. I swear, there is no acceptance like an infant making you feel like the most important person in the world.” He smiles faintly. “Luckily, her mom, Devon, was okay with me coming over, helping however I could, even if it was just watching the baby while she slept or went out. But it was pretty clear she was struggling from the beginning. She couldn’t keep a job, didn’t have any family to help. Didn’t seem particularly maternal, which is not a knock on her. She was in a tough position. One day, she just…up and left.”
Oh wow.My heart aches for Celine, abandoned by both parents at such a young age.
“Celine was almost two years old when she went into foster care. I turned eighteen a few months later and applied to take legalguardianship. I wasn’t exactly ready to be a full-time single parent, though, so my mom agreed to be my co-applicant.”
“Jesus,” I say before I can stop myself. My mind is abuzz, re-forming the image of the life I assumed Ryan had, trying to absorb the sheer amount of responsibility he took on at such a young age. Becoming the father his own father wasn’t. “And your mom was okay with adopting your dad’s other kid?”
“She had feelings about it, obviously. It wasn’t easy for her, emotionally or practically. It took some convincing—she didn’t have the same level of emotional connection to Celine that I did, being that they weren’t related. But we were granted a visit as part of the potential guardianship process, and when we arrived, Celine ran straight into my arms, squealing my name with the biggest smile on her face, and, well, Mom’s not made of stone. That sealed the deal.”
“Still, she was basically an empty nester by then, right?” I say. “She probably thought she was done raising kids, and then had a toddler running around again.”
He focuses on the middle distance, as if remembering those days. “It was a lot. I had just started college, and she didn’t want me to give it up. I was still living at home, commuting to NYU. I had some scholarships, but money was sparse. I contributed what I could from part-time jobs. Mom had a day job as a receptionist at a dental clinic, and I changed my schedule so I could take classes at night. That way, we traded off being home with Celine until she started preschool a couple years later.”
“What about your social life? Friends, parties…dating?”
He meets my eyes. “Not much time or bandwidth for those things.”
“And you weren’t bitter about that?”
He considers his answer. “I’m pragmatic by nature. My circumstances made it so I always had to operate within restrictions, and once Celine came into my life, it was only natural to put her needs first. Stricter boundaries just came with the territory.”
Serving Celine’s needs is one thing, but I can’t help thinking that his adherence to boundaries is more about controlling—or blocking out—his own needs. Because they competed with hers?
“Worth it, though. You’ve met Celine,” he says, eyes glimmering with pride, with devotion. “Was it hectic for a while? Sure. But for better or worse, Mom had had training, raising me on her own.”
“But you hadn’t.”
“I mean, yes and no. She worked long hours when I was growing up, trying to make ends meet. I’d learned how to do things for myself. And I took odd jobs as soon as I could, to help out.”
My brain lights up at the thought of little Ryan running a lemonade stand or throwing rolled-up newspapers onto doorsteps from a Schwinn. “What kind of jobs?”
“Tutoring, dog-walking, babysitting.” He smirks. “Real glamorous stuff.”
I smile. “Hey, don’t knock childhood glamor jobs. I did all those same things.”
I try to think of how I can meet him halfway in this conversation. I never adopted a child as a teenager, but I feel I can relate on some level, at least.
“My dad worked long hours too,” I say. “He was the clerk at a corner store. His shifts lasted all day. He’d open the store first thing in the morning and close late at night.”
He turns toward me, settling back against the train wall. “What was his job in Armenia?”
“His family owned a coffee shop, and he worked there. It was kind of a hybrid corner store and coffee house—they sold ground beans as well as dried fruits and nuts, other pantry items. And they had a couple of tables set up inside and out where they served coffee to in-store patrons. I’ve seen a few pictures.”
“So your love of coffee goes back generations.”
I put a hand over my heart. “It’s our legacy.”
“Did your mom work?” he asks.
“Her mom died when she was pretty young, so she looked after her dad and helped to raise her younger siblings, mostly. When my parents got married, she helped with the shop. After they immigrated here, she took some odd jobs, trading on the skills she had. She baked pastries for the local deli. She could sew, so she made adjustments for a local seamstress when they were backed up. That kind of thing. She could do those things from home, so she and my aunt could trade off being home with Maral and me.”
I stick to practical details because I’d rather swallow thumbtacks than put a dour spin on what’s otherwise a story of resilience and starting over—the kind of story people like to hear. From the kind of Ana people like to see. So I keep it light. Don’t tell him how Mom retreated for long periods in those early years in Boston, and was never quite the same after immigrating. That the transition from the rural Armenian village she’d called home her entire life to a Western urban metropolis was not easy on her. She went from being surrounded by family, siblings and cousins, a language she knew, and a role she embodied to her core to living in a city where she only knew her sister-in-law’s family, had to learn a whole new language, find space, and weather microaggressions in an entirely foreign culture. Had to raise her child within it when she was still trying to figure it out for herself. It took a toll on her.
And not just on her.
“How long did you all live together?” Ryan asks.
“I was twelve when we moved into the house my mom still lives in now. But till then, we all shared an apartment. Mar’s parents had come over on my uncle’s student visa a couple years before us and applied for citizenship. After the Soviet Union collapsed, they were able to sponsor our immigration.”
