About Something Very Dear

I was supposed to be Viktor.
Well, okay, maybe not Viktor, but at least some little Paul or Darius, for sure.

Back in the day, when I first saw the world, only MOTHERS were invited to meet the newborn, while fathers circled the windows of the maternity hospital. The story goes that after my father finally got through on the landline, he was informed: “Congratulations, it’s a healthy DAUGHTER!” (!?)

The story also says that my father cried into the receiver—not out of sadness, because knowing him, you only ever see him cry from joy or concern—and that he even joked:

“Perhaps the midwife could come back and check the newborn’s gender one more time?!”

Though I suspect that’s just the story’s embellishment.

So instead of Viktor… here I am.

Viktorija.

Though honestly, to my father, I’m not some strictly formal VIKTORIJA.

I’m Aukselis.

I don’t remember when he first called me that, but even now, at 40 for me and 70 for him, our phone calls always start with his joyful, “Oh, my little Aukselis!”

Aukselis is Aukselis.
Viktorija is Viktorija.

But not being a little Paul or Darius… well, I’ve always felt a little indebted.

Because, as the story goes, after the midwife double-checked, no extra little boy grew.

So that’s how I settled in the family.

The little sister of big sisters.

I never asked if my sister had hoped for a brother too.
But looking back on childhood, and knowing that I “made a mess” no less than a brother would have, I feel she never harbored any great resentment.

Over time, generous fate helped set things right.

Enter Dominykas and Mykolas.

Add the fact that my sister “gifted” Jonas, and now my father is the grandfather of three wonderful boys.

I look at him now through the eyes of the little Paul or Darius he might have had, and I think—good thing I surprised him with the gender question at the time. I have no doubt he already had plenty of experience and love for raising an “oak sapling.”

But, “holy heavens,” the way he preserved that love over the years—conserved it, and then unleashed it, like an atomic bomb—showered our boys with it.

They have the best grandpa in the world.

And the fact that his love is more than enough for three “oak saplings” and three smiling little girls means I can live completely at peace, having fixed the birthday “joke”: that I am
Not Viktor. Not little Paul or Darius.
To my dad—I’m simply Aukselis.

Happy Father’s Day!
To ours and our children’s!
The heroes of life!

Mua,
V.