The Healing Power of Surprises

Birthdays are pretty predictable for me. I know that at precisely half past eight in the morning, my mother will rouse me from sleep with a voice stronger than her coffee. If I’m home with her, my booming birthday wish comes with a life-affirming hug and a card filled with proclamations of unconditional love. If I’m away, I’m answering her call from bed, eyes still closed to the mid-morning light, as she recalls my entire birth journey. 

From the extravagant baby shower at her job to the unexpected gender reveal in the operating room, we go over every detail. Mommy was so sure about the sex of her baby that she didn’t even ask the doctors for a sneak peek during her prenatal visits. On delivery day, while my mother anxiously awaited a Christopher, she got a Christina. I was Mommy’s surprise daughter. Another surprise? Her anesthesia didn’t take. 

“I felt everything, Chris. Everything. But it got me you,” Mommy will say to me with a sweet, sad smirk. “You were meant to be here.” 

Somehow, my birth is both a trigger and a triumph. I feel her pain and pride like an annual refrain. On what’s supposed to be my best day, I’m deeply empathetic to what had to be one of her worst. And then the conversation often takes a sudden, resentful turn towards Daddy. 

“Your father was God knows where. If he were there, he could’ve told them something was wrong.” Mommy will assert. “I was all alone.”

“Is that why Daddy’s name wasn’t on my birth certificate?” I’ll ask with feigned ignorance. I’ve heard this story too many times, but I still hope there’s a different answer. A truer answer. 

“Chris, you know why,” she’ll say. “He wasn’t there to sign it, and I just forgot about it.”

Daddy’s name wasn’t added to my birth certificate until I was 17 years old. Mommy calls it an oversight. I call it payback. Why can’t she admit to being petty?

My birth was the impetus for that 17-year grudge, and for our family — well, Mommy, my two older sisters, and I — to move from Brooklyn, New York, to Apopka, Florida, mere months after I was born. Sans dad. He stayed behind, I’m told, because he couldn’t find good-paying trucking jobs in Florida. When I was old enough to string sentences together, I’d ask why he wasn’t around. It was always “because of work,” and “New York pays better,” or “there’s more money up north.” Growing up, it proved to be a bit tough explaining this to my very inquisitive friends at the lunch table. 

"How come I never see your dad?” one would ask. “Are your parents divorced? Everybody’s divorced.”

"Nope,” I’d reply. “They’re married. I saw the rings."

"Maybe they’re separated,” another would chime in. “My mommy said that's what parents do when they need a time out."

I’d stall, weighing the logic in that statement as pictures of my parents flashed through my mind. A kiss here. A laugh there. Some yelling now and then. But that’s normal, right? “Uhhh. No. They are so married. They sleep in the same bed when my dad visits.” A pause as I’d look around the table, hoping that was the end of it. Then, a palette cleansing, “Can I have some Gushers?"

Throughout my formative years, I would have this same conversation, like variations on a theme. Every time it was brought up, I was surprised by the realization that his presence was lacking. Other dads mowed the lawn every other weekend, while mine only saw us every other season. While I love my dad — respect him, learn from him, talk to him, spend quality time with him — he was a bit of an absent father. 

When Mommy got tired of us asking, “When is Daddy coming?” we would go to New York. I have half-baked memories of one trip in particular. I don't recall how old I was. Old enough to read the room, but too young to fully understand why the vibe had changed. We drove over 18 hours to surprise him. Mommy, my sisters, me, and a slew of aunts and cousins on my mom’s side. We even had a cat and a dog in there, too. All of us crammed into a church van rental with pots and pans of Haitian delicacies as road trip snacks. I remember a borderline brawl broke out when my aunt ate all the lambi before we even crossed the Carolinas.

When we finally reached New York, it was night. Snow was just starting to sift over the sidewalk. A feast for my Floridian eyes. I craned my neck up, up, up to watch the flurries dance under the streetlamp along with the puffs of my breath. I was happily distracted as Mommy called for him. 

“Michelet!” she screeched. “Michelet!” she repeated, somehow even louder than before. We began to knock, knock, knock and boom, boom, boom. He didn’t answer, but the lights were on. 

When Daddy finally opened the door, everyone started yelling in Kreyol — a language I never learned because it always seemed reserved for adult conversations. An aunt rushed us back to the van with my sisters as my parents hurled indecipherable insults back and forth like ping pong balls. We got back in the car and waited. I remember the silence of that wait more than the length. Nobody uttered a word, but that van was pregnant with emotion. I was 35 years old before I learned why. Daddy had another woman in his bachelor pad. 

Trips to New York weren’t all bad. I clearly remember one of the first times I really hung out with my Amazan cousins in Queens. I was 10 or 11 years old. As soon as I entered the foyer of my aunt’s house, I was bombarded with observations.

“Yooooo, you look just like your father,” one cousin drawled.

“Word, son. Just like Tonton Michelet,” another cosigned.

“Come on Ti Michelet, let's go to the corner store,” yet another chimed in.

These remarks weren’t compliments nor insults. Just facts sprinkled into typical cousin conversations. When we returned from chasing down the ice cream truck or catching fireflies on the block, I caught my mother staring at me with the intensity of a hawk. Surrounded by Amazans with the same carved cheekbones and bold brows, I thought she was just studying my features against theirs and seeing the similarities. But then our gazes locked and she snapped out of her trance. 

"You’re just like your father,” she remarked with an air of disbelief. “The way you walk. The way you talk. Even the way you look. After everything I've been through, you turned out just like him.”

After that moment, I recall wondering if maybe my parents were in some kind of time-out. She would speak as if she despised him. I’d overhear their argumentative, long-distance phone calls many a night. Echoes of her discontent would find their way into the soundtrack of many a day, but Mommy also made sure we rolled out the red carpet for our provider during Daddy’s blue moon visits. Steak, king fish, and griot when he’s home. Just chicken and cheap cuts when he’s not. All of the pomp and circumstance told me they loved each other. But there’s some hate in there, too. I was conditioned to think love had to have a little hate to be true. A little tension, so you know it’s real. 

I watched this love-hate dynamic continue over the years. By the time I reached high school, I got to see this balancing act more frequently because Daddy moved down to Miami. I guess Florida suddenly paid enough. Then, by my senior year of high school, Daddy moved home with us in Apopka, Florida. It was a bit odd for me. After 17 years of biannual visits, I got to see my dad every day. A little too late, though. I was a selfish teenager focused on homecoming, college acceptance letters, boys, prom, graduation, and what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. It was “Me” season. But Daddy still tried to make up for lost time. Random gift baskets from Bath & Body Works. Showing up to my orchestra performances. Valentine’s Day flowers were delivered to my classroom. These gestures were so out of character. I knew something was off, but things like prom took precedence. 

To celebrate my high school graduation, my 18th birthday, and the end of her child-rearing, Mommy planned a trip to Paris. My aunt from New York and her daughter, who also graduated from high school, were set to join us. We were packed and almost ready to go when my paternal grandmother suddenly passed away. My aunt had to back out of the trip, but she still wanted my cousin to go. Mommy, my cousin, and I ran around les arrondissements in Paris while Daddy and his siblings made arrangements for Grandma in Haiti. 

I felt guilty having fun while my father’s family was grieving, but Mommy’s delighted demeanor made it seem like it was ok to feel the joie de vivre. I watched her eyes twinkle every time we passed la Tour Eiffel. I could practically hear the classic chansons she would blast at home as we walked down the Champs-Élysées. Not to mention the way the French language just rolled off her tongue the minute we landed on French soil. I swear she was flirting with the hotel manager every encounter we had with him, but I wasn’t fluent enough to prove it. 

When we got back to the United States, Mommy’s first call was to check in with Daddy in Haiti. She was excited to tell Daddy about our adventures — minus her hotel manager love connection, I’m sure. She made the call on speaker phone, so I heard everything. I heard the maid pick up. I heard the formal salutations exchanged. I heard a baby’s cries competing with a rooster's relentless crows. 

“Kiyès ti bebe sa?” Mommy inquired. 

“Oh oh. Ou pat konnen?” said the maid, dropping all sense of deference. “Sa se pitit Michelet.” 

Pitit Michelet. Again, I don’t speak Kreyol, but I’m fluent enough to know “Michelet’s baby” when I hear it. Turns out that the irritable infant was my father's surprise daughter. She was not yet one year old. And the Amazans knew. Some Amazans even met her. But these Amazans — Mommy, my older sisters, and I — had been clueless.

My heart couldn’t handle what was just revealed, so my brain started making quick calculations. Now the sudden migration to Miami made sense. The flights to Haiti are more direct from MIA than from JFK. The move back home during my senior year tracks. You need to save money on rent when you’ve got two families to feed. I was putting two and two together, but kept coming up short. I just couldn’t compute this level of betrayal. 

What happened next was pure dysfunction. Daddy tried to force acceptance, bypassing any real accountability. Mommy had a full-on breakdown. My eldest sister moved in with my parents to try to help mediate their marriage. My second eldest sister was in New York and in her early 20s, so she easily shut it all out. Meanwhile, I couldn’t get over the fact that I was now, technically, a middle child. I relished being the baby of the family. The youngest of three. That was my identity. I wondered if I was now the middle child of three and a half? 

The revelation of my father’s extramarital child put me in the middle of everything. In the middle of my brokenhearted mother and my hardheaded father. Of looking just like him and wanting nothing to do with him. Of wanting to finally be a big sister and wanted to stay loyal to my big sisters, who weren’t ready to embrace this new reality. One misstep with a mistress altered my family chemistry forever.

In this vulnerable state, I started dating. There were a couple of false starts. A fling from high school that flew away to the Air Force. He never answered my handwritten letters, so I sent him a typed-up Dear John letter. A couple of crushes in fraternities that were the very definition of womanizers, so I never let them get too close. I finally let my guard down for my college sweetheart, which quickly turned sour after he cheated on me with a study buddy. With the infidelity of my dad coloring my view, I was beginning to see every man through the lens of immorality. They could not be trusted with my heart.

After graduation, I moved to New York City and met Brooklyn Boy. He was everything my college sweetheart wasn’t and everything my father wasn’t. Loyal, even though we weren’t exactly exclusive. Honest, even though we tried so hard to mask our feelings for one another. And so ever-present. Brooklyn Boy was the most dependable person in my life. I’d dial his number and he’d pick up before the phone reached my ear. Dependable. That responsiveness was addictive. He always listened. He knew everything about me and remembered everything I said. Attentive. In tune. This was the fuel for falling in love. For years, Brooklyn Boy was my solace from the chaos of my kin. Until he, too, produced a surprise daughter.

Brooklyn boy took me to a nice steak dinner at Del Frisco’s in Manhattan, where I was defiant in my seafood selections. While I spooned the rich lobster macaroni and cheese next to the best crab cake of my life, already thinking about what I wanted for dessert, he told me he got his high school sweetheart pregnant again. My appetite went from famished to vanished.

I know it’s not all men, but it was all the men in my life so far. Each one of them broke my heart. This time around, my heart held on to Brooklyn Boy for years. Stuck. Stupid. My solace was now a mirror of the man I was running from, and I didn’t know where to go next. My feelings about my father and his surprise daughter were tangled with my feelings about Brooklyn Boy and his surprise daughter. I couldn’t tell where my daddy issues ended, and my dating issues began. So, I moved to California.

Left-brained people might judge this as a rash decision, but the math was simple to me. Distance makes the mind think more clearly, so I put as much mileage as I could between these men and me. It just so happened I was blessed with a job offer in California right as I was plotting my escape. But distance wasn’t enough. I had to figure out how the hell I ended up dating a rendition of my father and didn’t see it coming. How my parents’ decision to stay together, despite the dysfunction, taught me to stay in relationships longer than I should. I needed someone to help me see the patterns and work through them. I needed a helping, healing hand. I needed a therapist. 

And I found one. A Black woman who focuses on healing trauma through self-love. She and I spent a year talking about Brooklyn Boy and his surprise daughter before I even mentioned my father had one, too. I broke the news to her after one memorable birthday morning. I told my therapist how, as predicted, Mommy called me first. As a surprise, my half-sister called me next. 

I had just wiped the sleep from my eyes and made my way to the commode. My iPhone was perched in a precarious position on my thigh as I graced the porcelain throne. Queen for the day, I had to stay ready for my influx of birthday wishes. My iPhone shimmied with an incoming call. The caller ID said Daddy, but my half-sister’s voice said hello. 

“Ha-happy B-birthday,” she stuttered in the timidest tone. 

How else do you respond to your father forcing you into a three-way call with a sister you’ve never met? She was probably just as nervous as I was. After years of trying not to feel anything and even trying to forget, I finally felt everything. All at once. Shock. Anger. Betrayal. But what I felt most was guilt. Deep, unrelenting, foundational guilt. 

I had a half-sister in Haiti who knew I existed, but never met me. She grew up an only child, while I grew up with two older sisters and a caravan of cousins. I feel so much guilt that she couldn’t experience sisterhood in the way I was blessed to because, as a family, we couldn’t get our shit together. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go down. My first time speaking with her is not supposed to be a surprise phone call. But surprises can be a catalyst for healing. 

My half-sister’s surprise call ignited an unrequited yearning to know her. Does she look like me? Like Daddy? What’s her favorite color? Do I approve of her music taste? All the little details became priority one. She’s 18 now, the same age I was when I learned of her existence. Maybe now I can have an unfiltered conversation and explain why I kept my distance. 

Now I send my half-sister WhatsApp messages here and there about this and that. She’s 18, so she answers whenever she feels like it, sometimes not at all. I still keep trying, working towards having that elephant-sized conversation about our shared father. We’re not there yet. If I’m honest, I know I’m not there yet. There’s still a lot left unsaid, even between my father and me. We talk about everything but this one big thing. It’s been 17 years since I found out about his surprise daughter. There’s no statute of limitations on healing, but I hope I’m not holding a 17-year grudge like Mommy. 

Along with copious amounts of therapy, my half-sister’s unexpected phone call was the key to unlocking my vulnerability. My suppressed, tightly tucked bud of emotions started to bloom. Like a hesitant yet hungry hummingbird, I was beginning to explore my flowering feelings, taste and define their flavors, and use them to pollinate my life. I started speaking up more at work, opening up more to my friends and family, and reinvigorating my creativity. This fertilization was most notable in my writing. After a decades-long writing drought, words were starting to flow out of me, carving new paths and changing the landscape of my life. My traumas used to mute my creativity. Now they fuel it. I’m able to create worlds on the page, stage, or the silver screen inspired by my life. I can tell my truth in nonfiction pieces or imagine fictional universes where my family decides to do things differently. Where we aren’t so betrayed. Where we are able to cultivate closer relationships and healthy attachments. Where surprises are more humorous and less hurtful.

Surprises come in many forms, but an interesting turn of events is craveable. It’s human to desire a good storyline. They’re great for the plot of your life. Unexpected events lead me to fall in and out of love, move across the country, start therapy, explore my vulnerability, and supercharge my creativity. A surprise, Christina is born. A surprise half-sister is revealed. Every surprise that follows will be seen as a collateral opportunity for healing. 

About the Author

Christina Amazan is a multidisciplinary writer living in Los Angeles, California. She enjoys writing because it provides a safe space to explore her vulnerability.

Christina is a 2024 fellow in the inaugural cohort of the Muses & Melanin Fellowship Program for Black Women Creative Writers, fully funded by the California Humanities, a nonprofit partner of the National Endowment for the Humanities, and the San Francisco Arts Commissions' Dream Keeper Initiative and Arts Impact Endowment grants. Christina was also awarded a Quick Grant from the Center for Cultural Innovation in 2025.

Currently, she is continuing to post on her blog, writing her first feature-length screenplay, and drafting her first TV pilot. When not writing, Christina enjoys cooking meals with a Haitian flair, traveling to art museums around the world, and sometimes traveling just to eat.