Years ago, one of the women in my close friend group confided in me that she wanted to have a baby—whether she had a partner or not. She was independent, practical, and very sure of what she wanted from life. When she asked if I would consider donating so she could start a family, it completely caught me off guard.
We talked about it at length. These weren’t emotional conversations, but thoughtful, measured ones. She made her intentions very clear: this wasn’t about starting a relationship or sharing parenting responsibilities. She didn’t want the complications of custody, involvement, or blurred roles. All she wanted was a child she could raise on her own.
At the time, it seemed like a reasonable request.
It didn’t feel like a big deal back then, so I agreed. When her son, Ryan, was born, I was present—not as a father, but as a friend. I visited, held him, and watched her step confidently and joyfully into motherhood. After that, I moved on with my life. I got married and had children of my own, and I rarely thought about Ryan. Occasionally, I would see him at gatherings or birthday parties when our friend circles overlapped, but he was simply my friend’s son. Eventually, my family and I moved to the East Coast, and over time, my connection with his mother faded as well.
Then came an unexpected message.
For years, Ryan barely crossed my mind. He meant nothing to me in a personal sense. But when he turned twenty-two, he contacted me directly for the first time. His message was careful and thoughtful—the kind of message someone writes after rehearsing what they want to say over and over. He explained that he had spent years wondering about the other half of where he came from, and that his mom had finally told him. He said he wanted to get to know me and “bond.”
I knew I had to set expectations.
I replied as kindly as I could. I told him that I cared about him only in the limited way the situation allowed, but that I wasn’t his parent and didn’t want to disrupt the life he and his mother had built. I explained that if he needed medical history or factual information, I would provide it, but I didn’t want a family relationship. He responded politely and said he understood. After that, things went quiet, and I hoped the exchange had given him the closure he needed.
But it wasn’t enough.
A few months later, a mutual acquaintance mentioned that Ryan had been asking people for my home address. He hadn’t told me he wanted to visit. He hadn’t asked whether I was comfortable with it. He was simply trying to figure out a way to show up. That unsettled me—not because I thought he was dangerous, but because the original agreement, the boundary that defined this entire situation, suddenly felt violated. I wasn’t his father, yet he was behaving as though I were.
Then came the final blow.
I decided to contact him directly and put an end to it. But when I called, his tone had changed. He told me that he would leave me alone if I included him in my will. At first, I thought I must have misunderstood him. Before I could respond, he said, “I’m your son too, whether you like it or not.” There was no discussion in that statement—only expectation. In that moment, I realized this was no longer about curiosity or identity. It had become a claim.
I did what I felt I had to do to protect my family.
I hung up immediately and ignored his calls and messages. Then I hired a lawyer and obtained a restraining order against him. I also contacted his mother and secured an official statement confirming that I was nothing more than a donor. I’ve since heard that Ryan and his mom are no longer on good terms because of all this. Some of our mutual friends think I was too harsh; they say all he wanted was a father figure. And while I do feel sympathy for him, I am not his father. I never agreed to be. I don’t believe my real children should suffer because of a mistake I made in my twenties. Am I wrong?
Family games
Source: brightside.me