A single father confronts jealousy, doubt, and the limits of fatherhood—
I am jealous.
I am angry.
I am frustrated.
Tonight, I experienced one of the most painful blows to my sense of fatherhood. Truth be told, I may have always known this moment would come—but there is no real way to prepare for it.
It happened at my parents’ home, where Sara and I have been staying recently because there is a reinforced safe room there. When there is a missile threat from Iran, you don’t take risks—certainly not when you have a three-month-old baby.
An Evening She Refused to Eat
From early morning, Sara was signaling that she wasn’t planning to eat much. That, in itself, was nothing unusual—she knows how to regulate herself, and we’ve learned to trust her instincts.
Throughout the day, her intake rose and fell.
By evening, her refusal became more persistent. She ate only tiny amounts.
At seven o’clock, my parents left for a family event, and I was left alone with Sara. On the surface, the most natural thing in the world—this has been our routine since the day she was born.
But instead of getting hungry and finally wanting to eat, I was deeply disappointed to discover that she was refusing completely. Every time I tried to move her into a feeding position, she burst into loud cries—until I returned her to a seated position.
The hours passed, and she continued to refuse. More than that, she wouldn’t agree to be placed in her crib, or even in the bouncer she usually loves. She demanded to be held—and only while standing.
After such a long day, holding Sara in my arms for hours, especially while standing, was no small task. Every time I tried to sit down, she cried.
Alone with the Worry
A heavy sense of worry settled over me. I feared my daughter wasn’t feeling well.
Since Sara has been drooling nonstop over the past month, I assumed that perhaps she was teething. I tried to comfort and entertain her in every way I knew—ways that usually help.
Nothing worked.
In my desperation, I did something I knew was generally recommended to avoid: I let her watch television, if only for a few minutes. She calmed down—but not for more than five minutes. Then the crying intensified.
By that point, I was practically praying for my parents to return, and for my mother—the experienced, trained caregiver—to help me handle the situation.
And Then My Mother Walked In
As if in answer to my prayers, they came back earlier than expected—and then the real drama unfolded, the one I struggled most to face.
It’s worth mentioning something I’ve written before: my mother bonded with her granddaughter in a way that astonished our entire family. I have never seen her so loving, so radiant with joy.
Maybe because Sara is her youngest grandchild after two great-grandchildren.
Maybe because she is named after her.
Maybe because she is the daughter of her 52-year-old firstborn, after a long and exhausting surrogacy journey.
The moment my mother opened the door and heard Sara crying, she rushed to take her from my arms.
“My poor girl. If I had known, I wouldn’t have gone,” she said.
She immediately sent me to prepare another bottle of formula, after I had already been forced to discard the contents of two bottles earlier that evening.
Formula with Grandma—and I Was Left in Shock
I was in complete shock.
Sara, who had refused to be fed by me just minutes earlier, lunged toward the bottle and began feeding ravenously.
As she fed her granddaughter, my mother burst into sobs—most likely out of guilt. Sara, while nursing intensely from the rubber nipple, fixed her grandmother with a piercing look that could easily be interpreted as:
“Where were you until now?”
Or, as I experienced it:
“Why did you leave me alone with him?”
The living room fell completely silent.
All that could be heard was the sound of sucking—and my mother’s crying.
I didn’t understand what had just happened.
And I didn’t really understand what I was feeling—except for a discomfort unlike anything I had ever known.
Then, in a brief moment of honesty, a thought rose in me that shook me to the core:
There is no substitute for a mother’s tenderness—and in that moment, I didn’t have it to give.
No Substitute for a Mother—So What Does That Mean for Me?
I began to wonder whether this had been a one-time incident, or whether it pointed to a deeper pattern.
I’ve said more than once that I spent most of my life alone. No romantic relationships. No close friends. As few family connections as possible. For 52 years, I closed my heart to the world, until it hardened like steel.
As Sara’s birth approached, I hoped that this past wouldn’t affect the relationship that would form between us. I made every effort to open myself emotionally, to soften, to be present—to give Sara the full spectrum of love she deserves.
But that evening, a painful doubt crept in.
Maybe it was an illusion.
No matter how much I soften, and even if I learn to be gentler and more emotionally present—in the end, perhaps, there is no substitute for a mother.
What does that mean for my future relationship with Sara?
I wish I knew.
In the End, There Was Relief
I choose to think of that evening as a statistical outlier, to tell myself that maybe Sara was willing to eat only because she happened to be ready at that exact moment.
Pathetic, I know.
But tonight, as I write these lines, I don’t have much more than that.
Yes, it was a difficult evening.
But I would be lying if I said I didn’t also feel relief when it ended the way it did.
I am still jealous.
Still angry.
Still frustrated.
But I am also grateful that my daughter is not sick, that she finally ate, and then fell asleep.
And I am grateful for my mother, who—when there is no mother in my daughter’s life—fills a double role for her.
At seventy-six, that is no small thing.
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Read Next
If you’d like to read more about Sara and our life together, here are two more posts you might enjoy:
Beyond the Blog
Alongside this blog, I also give talks about late fatherhood, surrogacy, and the emotional journey of becoming a parent later in life.
Sara and Me 