I had nothing against my parents – we had a good relationship and I didn’t want to run away from them. I had nothing against the city I grew up in, either, despite everything that happened with Mary Hannigan. It wasn’t a reason to leave.
It took me years to realise what my reason was: I wasn’t running away from someone or something. I was running away from myself.
I didn’t want to become like my father: a man who was bound to his family and his business. I didn’t want to be like my mother, who’s a member of the town council; someone who organises events and coordinates official festivals. I didn’t want to be one of them. I wanted to be someone to remember.
I didn’t know what else to do, other than sport. I was no good at school. I had trouble reading, and I was really shit at Maths; but I knew how to play, and everyone realised that pretty quickly. A diamond in the rough, according to my coach. A born sportsman.
By the age of eighteen, I had a contract in my hands, an apartment of my own in Dublin, and two sponsors who paid good money just for my face. I had no obligations and no responsibilities outside the sporting world. I was young, free, and charming; I had everything in the palm of my hand. And this was exactly how I felt right until life decided to put me to the test about nine months ago. Someone came knocking at my door with a girl in tow, telling me that she was my responsibility, now.
Okay, so that’s notexactlyhow it went, but you get the idea.
I wasn’t a complete dickhead, despite what everyone believed. I had no ties, and I never went looking for them; I liked having fun and I threw everything into my career. No one complained about the way I behaved – I don’t think I’m the first sportsman to enjoy female company now and then. I didn’t think there was anything wrong with living my life this way. I never thought it would cause me so many problems; especially when trying to win over my daughter’s trust, or that of the women who would fall at my feet.
I’ve dated a lot of women: some only lasted a night, while others stretched out to an entire week. But I never made any promises. I never deceived anyone. I never thought I was hurting anyone along the way.
So, when one of these flings suddenly became the future mother of my child, I panicked. I was young, I was stupid. I had no idea what it meant to be a father.
My manager suggested I sign a non-disclosure agreement that also obligated me to contribute money to my daughter; but her mother didn’t want my money. She wanted her daughter to have a father.
When Skylar was born, we both decided that it would be best for her to use her mother’s surname; we also decided that I wouldn’t announce her birth to the media. She signed the agreement, but still refused my money. It seemed childish to me, so I told her that I’d put all the money into a savings account for Skylar to use for her university fees. She agreed.
Every month she would send me photos, messages, emails; she asked me to go and visit them, to get to know my daughter, to be part of her life.
I went to see them a few times. I was uncomfortable, out of place. But my parents, who I obviously told about the whole thing, wanted to meet their granddaughter. They wanted to be part of her life – so, I had to be, too.
I brought her here to visit them a few times, and spent a few weekends and one Christmas with her when she was five. But over time, we started to drift a little, only communicating over the phone. I’d go over and visit them a few times, but I’d only stay for an hour or so. I brought presents for her that I hadn’t picked out, and sent her birthday cards written by somebody else. Things only seemed to get worse, until her mother rang me one day to tell me that she was dying.
I didn’t go and visit them then, either.
I’m not proud of who I was and, like my dad says, I can’t make up for the time I never spent with her; but we can try to build something now. Even though I still don’t feel quite ready to be a father, I know that the time has come for me to prove to myself – and to my family – that I can do better. And maybe I’ll be able to prove it to all the other people that don’t believe in me, too.
I’ve never been in love. I didn’t even love her mother. She was beautiful and funny; she was independent and open-minded. She never asked me to stay with her, never tried to trap me. She just wanted her daughter to have a father – and I couldn’t even shed a single tear at her funeral.
I wasn’t a good guy, and I have no justification for that. I didn’t have a traumatic childhood, or anything that had scarred me deeply. I’m simply a dickhead – and that’s exactly how I deserve people to see me. Including my own daughter.
“Lunch is ready,” Skylar says from behind me.
I get to my feet and brush the grass from my trousers. After painting half the fence, I’d decided to sit under a tree and think.
“Are you okay?”
“Sure. Why?” We walk up to the back door.
“You seem weird.”
“Are you worried about me?” I ask, teasing her.
“Not at all.” She flicks her head away instantly.
“I’m just feeling thoughtful.”
“I didn’t ask because I want to be your therapist, Kerry.”
“Then why did you ask?”
She shrugs, reaching for the door.
“Can I ask you something?”
