Michael is, and I say this in the clinical sense with no judgment or insult intended, a bastard. He was raised by his mother Mary Ellen in Putnam and Westchester counties, New York, while his own father lived in Ireland and brought up a brood there with his new wife. Michael’s father Brendan never denied his son’s existence and pitched in occasional financial support. But Michael only saw his old man a handful of times in his childhood. His late mother was effectively the only parent that he had.
I can relate, somewhat. I am also a bastard in the clinical sense. My mother and father were both married, but not to each other. My brother Norman’s father was not mine. Norman and I were raised by our mother and grandmother, both factory workers. Norman, who died three years ago, was seven years older than I and also contributed much to my upbringing. I knew my father and liked him a lot, but I knew him as my Uncle Ray. There were plenty of men in my life as I was growing up — friends of my brother mostly — who were kind to me and who I suppose I modeled myself on. Not only have I never felt myself deprived, in a way I think I was — as I often have been — lucky.
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