Father. Father. How strange and odd the word still sounds to me.
I wonder, father, where you could be, and I also allow myself silent reflections about this: do you ever think of me, your one and only biological son?
Perhaps I shouldn't consider this. It's not important, that much I admit. If you ever include me in your reminiscences about the past is a vain thought that wouldn't make a difference in the outcome of things to come. To believe you are not dead is also the belief in a future where we could again join forces and be together, fight crime, as you would certainly wish, and I would have the opportunity of show you how truly worthy of your name I am.
I've sacrificed much for this, father.
For this, I've left my mother's side. I'm sure you think poorly of her, Talia, my mother – I do admit her choices were not wise. Still, wouldn't you admire her? Don't you think she did a good job with me?
In many ways, I think she did.
She trained me, she pushed me, she made me strong. She wanted to make me the leader of her League, yes; but she has also made me this fine weapon, one that can be used in so many ways… and one of those is this: fight for Gotham, protect it, put down those that threaten your town. Your kingdom, father. I have no illusions; I know you think of Gotham as yours, and it is. In more ways than one.
Mother taught me like that: she would always tell me about you. She would speak for hours long about you, about Batman, and your adventures would guide me to my restless sleep. Her tales were fascinating, father, and I knew you like that: through my mother's eyes. And, oh, I do know now, as I sensed then, that her picture of you is very particular. Talia is, after all, her father's daughter, and she was less worried about the truth and more concerned about your impact in my life, in my future as the great heir of both Ra's al Ghul's and Batman's legacy. That's why you were showed to me as, perhaps, more dark, lonely, merciless than you actually are. That's why your kindness to strangers, your unbreakable sense of justice and your rigid personal ethics were never too important in her stories.
Neither were the relationships you had with others, the single exception being herself, of course.
I knew of them. Grayson, for one – mother told me about Robin, and it was inevitable that his name and those of his successors were brought up. She never emphasized, though, the fact that Grayson, Drake, even Jason Todd, they were like sons for you. She made it sound like those Robins were disposable sidekicks, kids you were forced to endure, not people you cared about. Because she wanted me to desire this place. She wanted me to believe I was the one that should be by your side, no matter what. It was my right, my heritage, the legacy that would naturally be passed to me.
I still believe in this. Kind of.
I knew so much about you, father. So much. I knew things you had done, places you had been, your tactics, your combat styles. The way you dressed. How you talked. The color of your eyes. I know all the similarities between our faces, all the physical traits I inherited from you. I'm so much like you, father…!
And I'm not.
When I frown, it should be identical to you, we have the same eyebrows – than why you seemed thoughtful in this gesture when I simply look cruel?
There's so much I don't know about you, father.
There's Selina Kyle, the Catwoman. Why don't I know more about her?
Mother told me. Another of your usual foes. A thief. And perhaps one among many women you had in your life. Oh, that wasn't a shock. Mother never spared me the kind of detail parents usually keep from their children. Human reproduction was never a mystery to me, neither were the elements of the courtship between men and women. It was just another thing I had to learn, one among many, and it was a relief to know it was something I wouldn't be practicing for a few years still. Just another fact.
I never gave a second thought to that, to the possible relationship between you and that Selina Kyle. It didn't matter. And when I entered your life, there wasn't anything in it that could make me think differently.
Now, father, now I wonder why.
I don't make anything of my mother's behavior, because it's to be expected. She would want me to think she was the only woman that was ever important to you – perhaps she genuinely believes so. But you…
You never mentioned Selina Kyle when you were around me. In fact, I now understand you made an effort to keep any information about her from me. Why, father? Why?
Was it because you thought my "childish" mind would resent you or your little project of a girlfriend? Did you want to protect my immature feelings and our frail relationship…?
Or was it because you didn't trust me?
Perhaps you feared I would be jealous of her. And then what, right? You couldn't predict my reaction. You didn't know if I would dismiss it as a silly thing or maybe feel threatened, if Selina would just remain as insignificant as she has always been to me or if I would see her as yet another adversary to be… destroyed.
You didn't want me to hurt her, right?
I have no illusions – I know it wasn't my safety that worried you.
And I do confess: back when we first met, I can't guarantee I wouldn't do something foolish. My younger, less scrupulous self would have probably enjoyed the challenge of fighting Catwoman, the notorious thief; that, and I wouldn't mind the attention you surely would have awarded me with if I threatened her.
You think of me as cold-hearted, father. And I know you don't blame it exactly on me, but on my mother and the way I was brought up. Oddly, this is no comfort. It's not helpful, not if one's father is you, you and your unreachable standards, your shameless judgments, your self-righteousness. You spare no one: not Grayson, Jason, Drake, my mother, the other heroes, not even Superman or Wonder Woman, certainly not me.
Then why do you spare her?
This is a former thief we talk about. A criminal. The kind of person you swore on your parents' grave you would fight and eradicate. Does it really matter that she has redeemed herself? Shouldn't she pay for her former crimes anyway?
Never mind that – let's talk about the fact that she is a murderer. And that you knew about it. Oh, yes, father. I cracked and hacked your famous firewalls, and I can read your encrypted files. Those you left only for Alfred eyes, the files he shouldn't reveal to anyone unless absolutely necessary. I read them now. I'm reading again about Black Mask's death, delivered by Selina's shot. She killed him, father. And you knew that.
I guess double standards aren't unknown to you, after all.
I've also found the file about Helena. Baby Helena. Her daughter. The child she eventually gave up to adoption because she feared for the girl's safety. And in that endeavor you assisted her – that doesn't surprise me, I must confess. What does shock me, however, is the personal comments I find through this file, simply named "precious". Here you write, in mid-November:
"I saw her today, the child. She's beautiful. Looks like Selina, but also doesn't – I searched her features for similarities from my own face, even though I had promised myself I wouldn't. Nothing conclusive. I don't have enough data, and I don't know if I'll ever have. Selina told me we needed to talk, and instead of anxiety, I felt hope. Reason tells me that the chances of Helena being my daughter are slim, but I can't help it. I see that innocent, undefiled face, Selina's green eyes replicated there… and I can't avoid the silent wish, the wish that, by some strange and undeserved miracle, I could call her mine."
Oh, father. That's almost sad. It's certainly pathetic. Just not as pathetic as this other paragraph, written a couple months later:
"Selina finally confirmed it tonight: Sam Bradley Jr. is Helena's father, as I had deduced. This makes the child an orphan and myself… I don't know what to call it. I certainly feel empty, like I've been robbed of something. It's unfair in so many ways, I know Selina owns me nothing, but I do feel like I have been wronged, somehow. Not by her, but by myself. I feel foolish. A fool for trying to convince myself there was a chance I could be the baby's father, and even more of a fool because I'm not. I could have been; if I hadn't always been so reticent about this relationship, if I had allowed myself to actually grab this opportunity with Selina that I had in my hands. Or perhaps even if I had, just once, just for one night, been spontaneous and less responsible, if I had risked and allowed fate, destiny, God, whatever or whoever is in charge, if I had allowed someone else decide if a child would be conceived… what then? Maybe today I would be able to be called "father" by someone."
It's funny, father. If this date is right, then you already knew about me. You were a father already. My father. Or perhaps you didn't believe my mother? You doubted her words, you needed to confirm it by running DNA tests, by studying me? Or maybe you just didn't want it to be true. Maybe you knew I was your biological son – you just didn't consider me worthy of the title. Those are painful thoughts. It's a good thing that your writing brings me comfort, this section from months later in particular:
"It finally happened. The one thing I feared the most, that idea in Selina's mind that I had been able to often read in her eyes. I hoped, how I hoped she would never be brave enough to actually ask me. Brave, however, is precisely what she is, as I should already know. And it took all her courage, all her heart, to ask me this: help to find an adoptive home for Helena. From my part, it demanded all my will power to keep me from trying to dissuade her. Just the thought of seeing Helena go… or what will happen to Selina when it finally happens, when the moment to deliver her child to someone else actually comes… I fear it. I fear it will destroy her. And I fear what it could do to me also."
Fear, father? You had fears about that? Well, you were right to, as my favorite part of this file confirms:
"She's gone. She's gone. I say these words to myself time and time again, as it could help me make sense of this brutal fact. Like the repetition could make it easier, or relieve the pain. Tonight I feel… broken. Not simply sad, not just the bearer of a broken heart: I just can't find that strength, that one thing that keeps you awake and alive when nothing else does. And my God, if there's a crime fighter in this world that relies in that small advantage of pure will power, that crime fighter is Batman. But not tonight. Not tonight. Tonight, I fell like my world doesn't make sense anymore. I did what Selina asked of me, but I also know I failed her monumentally. I was unable to help her in what she needed the most: a safe world where she could just be with her daughter and be a mom. I failed Helena. I couldn't protect her enough. She lost her mother, the one person that was her whole world. Ah, yes, I tell myself over and over that she will be alright, she's in right hands, she won't remember a thing… I just wish I could believe it. Tonight, I will not patrol. I can't. I look at my uniform and I just hate it. I hate my mission, and all that came from it – Selina giving up Helena, that came from Batman. It's because of Batman that Selina became Catwoman, and because of that we knew each other. And this life brought Selina here, now. I can't stand the sight. Tonight, I hate Batman. I hate myself and what I've become."
Father, I just can't believe what I'm reading. The despair that is so obvious in your words. Is this what love is for you, father? And if it is, what does this woman and that child have done to earn it?
And where did I fail you to be judged so harshly, so undeserved of your graces?
To make things more confusing, you're not even here. If you were, would you have an answer to me?
I doubt.
I guess I'll have to find the answers on my own. At least, I now know where to search.
