I Had to Prove He Was Mine

In case there's any question: April, 2013

My son was born on Feb 23, 2002.

I know his social security number.

I can tell you his favorite color, what he likes to eat, who his two best friends are, what his favorite TV show is and myriad other things.

And yet -- yet -- I had to prove he was my child to a photography company.

All so I can have the honor of spending $39 for an 8x10 copy of his senior photo.

Off of Friday's post, my niece Stephanie sent an email to the company in question so that we could look into buying pictures. It went as expected.

"We need to hear from a legal guardian."

* It is at this point that every "Devil's Advocate" should take the day off. Yes, I get it. "Sabrina," on the live chat, was just doing her job. Duly noted. But, please, I beg of you, sit this one out if you're out to tell me how "it's her job."

It was among the most humiliating things I've ever done.

As I've highlighted, I've missed on birthday parties. Doctors appointments. Dentist appointments. Lots of decisions. Even him receiving the letter that he's been accepted to college.

I've been invited to zero of this. Literally. Zero. Did I have a say in his college decision? Nope. Negative.

Other single dads are cool with this. I said -- OVER TWELVE YEARS AGO -- that I wouldn't be.

Yes. Sabrina did her job, and did it well.

It still left me heartbroken having to prove that, indeed, Sean Robert Adams -- named BY ME, in part in honor of my late father --  was and is STILL my own son.

I was once asked, when coming back into the United States: "Is that your baby?" I didn't laugh. I said, "Yes," and moved on. But, it was sort of funny.

You don't understand. I get it. That's fine.

I'm crushed right now.