Dear Sean

Nine

That was the year I found out your brother was going to be born.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

How was I going to tell Paul?

Cynthia’s face was starting to go blurry and her voice faded into echoes, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes.

“—John, I don’t know what to do, what do we do?”

“We’ll have to get married,” I said, my voice piercing my daze and sounding loud to my own ears.

I told Uncle Paul. He was very happy that I was going to have a baby, and so was I.

“John.”

His voice was quiet, strained.

“I—I—Paul, I’ve got no choice, we’ve got to get married.”

Paul nodded, and a strange expression came over his face. I wondered whether he was going to shout or cry, and I couldn’t decide which was worse.

“I know. I just thought we—“ he sucked in a deep breath, and wiped at his eye.

“Paul…”

“You know what you have to do,” Paul choked out.

Julian was born in April the next year, in 1962.

“Paul… My son was born…” I said, looking around the hall, paranoid that someone would see or hear, and wonder what I was doing phoning Paul when I’d just become a father.

“What did you name him?”

“John Charles Julian Lennon.”

“Lovely.”

Paul’s voice was so choked up that I couldn’t tell if he was being sincere or sarcastic. I vehemently wished for the former.

“Well…congratulations,” Paul said.

“Thanks,” I answered awkwardly.

“See you at the studio.”

Paul was Uncle Paul to Julian too.

“Uncle Paul!” Julian shrieked, his tiny three-year-old hands grabbing at the air, trying to reach him.

“Hey, Jules!” Paul laughed, picking him up and twirling him around. He set him down gently, with painstaking care, as he always treated Julian.