Becoming Shayla's Father

For years, he denied he had a daughter. Now she was 18, and pregnant. Was it too late to learn to love each other?

FROM MY LUXURY HOTEL SUITE, THE PHILADELPHIA SKY SEEMS FORLORN, as though waiting for the sun to brighten its outlook. I, too, am brooding and waiting as I pace to the window and back again, hoping for the best, yet steeling myself. I pause to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror above the buffet. Have I chosen the right suit? I button and then unbutton my black jacket. Early in my career, when I was a prosecutor, I learned that how a lawyer dresses is at least as important as his verbal command in the courtroom. I chalk up my obsession with clothes to that, at least in part. I briefly consider the navy blue pinstripe suit hanging in the closet. But what if she arrives as I am changing?

I glance at the two bouquets of white roses on the mahogany dining room table, reaching for one bunch to check the petals for brown spots, and touch the top of a gold box of Godiva chocolate. Flowers and candy were my calling cards as a young single man -- I've always had a penchant for white calla lilies. But I am neither the player of my youth, nor the Renaissance man I once thought myself to be. I am afraid.

What should I do once I open the door? Should I wait until she speaks, or charge ahead with the verve and charm that have helped get me so far in life? Maybe I should be the Compliment Man? There once was a guy in the District, where I live, who gave himself that name. He spent his days and nights on the 18th Street strip in Adams Morgan, flattering people for money instead of begging. Who doesn't enjoy a compliment? In my case, giving one is certainly better than begging forgiveness. But what if she thinks I'm full of myself? (Never mind the truth.)

My hands are sweating, so I hurry to the bathroom and thrust them under the faucet, lathering and rinsing, lathering and rinsing. Then I wipe them dry and nervously coat them with too much lotion.

There is a knock at the door.

THE CALL CAME ONE AFTERNOON JUST BEFORE THANKSGIVING IN 2001, as I was straightening up papers on my desk at the downtown law offices of Reed Smith LLP, where I have been a partner for a decade. A woman. No hello, no how are you. A familiar voice, but I couldn't quite place it.

Scott, our daughter is 18 now, and she needs you, the woman said.

I remembered. Years ago, when we both were students in Atlanta -- she at Spelman College, and me at Morehouse College -- living carefree and equally careless lives, she told me she was pregnant. The baby wasn't mine, I was sure of that. We'd dated on and off for about six months, but we never belonged to each other, which is to say we dated others. Years later, I'd understand the other sex well enough to sense the damage a man does to a woman's self-respect and dignity when he asks: "You sure it's mine?" But, back then, denial seemed like the best approach. Eventually, I extended my wallet to help, never suggesting toward what, all the while reiterating that the child couldn't possibly be mine. I think I believed it, too.

She declined my assistance. I just thought you should know, she said. We have been great friends. I want us to stay friends. She left. I went back to my life: wine, women, song and education, perhaps in that order.

Later that summer, while I was at home in Joliet, Ill., a couple of her pals called to inform me that she planned to keep the baby. I cut the conversations short. Back at Morehouse, there were rumors that my "girlfriend" had claimed that someone other than I was the father. I felt relieved.

She left school. About seven years later, she called me to say she was thinking about marrying someone who wanted to adopt Shayla, and they needed my permission. I asked how I could give consent when I wasn't even sure Shayla was my daughter. She replied that my name was on the birth certificate. I told her I needed more than that and suggested a paternity test. She agreed. Her marriage plans fell through, though, and neither of us called the other back.

I got married in 1988 at the age of 26 and eventually moved to Washington from Manhattan, where I had been a prosecutor. I went to work as counsel for the D.C. Council's judiciary committee and then was hired by Reed Smith in 1991. My twin girls were born in 1995; my wife and I separated in 1999; and the divorce was finalized in January 2001.