I looked at Dan. "You know, as a sperm donor." Maybe it was a bad idea to suggest drinks after work. "47 kids. They got a Facebook group and everything. They met up in Scottsdale once but I wasn't invited." Dan shook his head. "Oldest is about your age actually."
“It seemed like a great way to make money back then, but it took its toll. And now I’ve fathered 47 people, without once being called ‘dad’. No regrets!” I clinked glasses with him and offered the traditional reply, “Don’t look back!” Then we both downed our cherry-celery juice.
The toast felt celebratory at first, then melancholy. What was gnawing at him? Perhaps he wasn’t ok after all with having dozens of children who didn’t know him. He opened his notebook to that dog eared page with 47 names. I will find you he said to himself. First up: Celeste.
Celeste lived in a run down brownstone in the next town. When they had spoken on the phone she seemed incredulous, but gradually came around to the realization that having another father (and 46 siblings!) could be to her benefit. Then the door bell rang.
"Who's there?" she inquired. "It's the gang!" a squeaky voice replied. Celeste opened the door and was stunned to see a mob of shabbily dressed people, ranging in age from 20 to early 40s. "We're your family now," said the original voice, which belonged to a young boy in shorts.
“What do you mean?” Celeste began backing away, but three or four of them surged forward and grabbed her, one clamping a hand over her mouth. She tried her best to scream and struggle but it was no use. They dragged her through the door and into the deep night. They pulled her in
to the basement and everything went dark. A thump was heard, then silence. Celeste’s friends were looking for her. Years passed, she was never found, just a story hidden under her bed in a diary. Another missing girl, another face on the wall.