I have a mother and two fathers. My father is sitting on the couch and reading a book. He has crossed his legs. He is smoking a cigarette. My mother is standing by the sideboard pouring tea. The teapot is old and its snout is clogged with tealeaves. The tea is trickling into the cup.
My father turns the page. There is a lady in a low-cut dress on the cover of the book. A soldier in uniform is sitting on a chair in the background. My father is wrapped up in his book. He is my father.
I have another father. His name is Henk. He lives in Amsterdam. I don’t know where he is. I don’t know him. Yet he is my father. He lives in Amsterdam. I was born in Amsterdam, but I don’t know it. It is far away.
I also have two brothers. One brother is my playmate. He has a father. The father who is reading a book. He has no mother. Mother is standing by the sideboard pouring tea. The tea is trickling into the cup.
The other brother is still small. He is playing with his building blocks on the floor. He has a father and a mother. His father is reading a book and his mother is pouring tea.
I, too, have a father and a mother. And I have a father whom I do not know. Who lives in Amsterdam.