I got a call from my cousin tonight. What started as a quick check-in turned into one of the deeper conversations we have had in a long time. We ended up talking about the future, about legacy, and eventually, about love. He asked me, “Do you believe people truly want to be in love?” That question, simple as it was, cracked something open in me.
Without hesitation, I said, “Yes.”
He let out an “Oh” that was less of a response and more of a dismissal. The kind that carries the weight of judgment, as if I had just revealed myself to be embarrassingly naive. But I pressed on. Maybe out of stubbornness. Maybe because I still believed he was one of the few men who might truly understand how I felt, someone who shared not only my bloodline but also the scars that came with it.
I reminded him of how both our fathers died. Men with large bank accounts, multiple homes scattered across continents, closets full of tailored suits and custom shoes, and long lists of romantic conquests. Yet none of those women were at their bedsides when the end came. When my father suffered a stroke, the only woman he trusted enough to help him sort through his affairs was my mother. A woman he had not been with for over fourteen years. That fact still haunts me. It was a sobering reminder that intimacy without permanence can leave you surrounded by people but still entirely alone.
I told my cousin that I do not want that for myself. That I want love, the real kind. Not just companionship or shared experiences, but someone to build with, someone who knows me deeply and chooses me daily. I could feel him growing impatient. Each “Uh huh” was a slow closing door. And then, just as I finished what felt like a heartfelt monologue, he shouted:
“OUR DADS WERE WHORES AND WE GOT THEIR BLOOD!”
I was stunned.
I sat there in silence as he launched into nostalgia, recalling what he called “the good times.” We used to call our fathers The Brothers, and we all had our stories. Tales we traded like folklore. My brother, my cousin, and I. Stories of walking downstairs to find three different women proudly standing in front of the dinner table, each having prepared a dish, and my father asking me which meal my fat picky fingers would choose that night. I thought it was charming back then. I did not realize what I had walked into until much later.
There were other stories too. One of us stumbling in on a scene that looked, at first, like a spirited bedside prayer, only to realize moments later there was nothing holy about what we had just witnessed.
Tonight, I tried to explain my quiet fear. That with every relationship, I want so badly to be the man I say I am. Not the man I was raised to become. My past behavior has, at times, echoed my father’s. I am not a cheater, but I do love women. I love to flirt. I enjoy the attention. And I often wonder, when the time comes, will I be able to shut that part of myself off? Will the ring on my finger silence the pull of inherited patterns?
I realized during that call that my cousin could not give me the answers I was looking for. Or maybe he was the exact person to give me the truth, just not in a way I was ready to hear. Eventually, I gave him an easy out from a conversation he never wanted to have. And I was left alone, turning my questions over in my head, the way you turn a stone in your hand, hoping it will eventually feel smooth.
Was I destined to become what he so bluntly named me, a whore?
What would that life look like? Would I get all the girls, all the memories, all the stories to pass down to my sons and nephews? Would they laugh the way we used to, retelling tales of women and wild nights? And if so, would I one day die alone, wondering which one of those women could have been enough if I had only chosen her, stayed, and tried?
I do not have the answers tonight. But the questions are loud. And for now, that is where I am. Somewhere between who I was raised by and who I hope to become.
