Steve Jobs Never Called Him Father

he didn’t want a reunion.

not the tear-soaked airport kind,

not the dying-man-in-hospital-bed kind,

not even the coffee-shop-across-the-table kind.

he wasn’t wired for that.

he was soldered with other metals.

he ran cold

like the circuit boards he built,

like the way he left voicemail bubbles

unopened for weeks,

like the future he dreamt—

glassy, efficient,

free of unnecessary parts.

---

they gave him away.

a boy born to a couple with foreign names

and unfinished plans.

smart people.

but smart doesn't feed a baby.

they filed the paperwork

and moved on.

so did he.

at least that’s what he told himself.

---

Paul and Clara.

a used-car man and a bookkeeper

with no degrees,

but all the devotion.

they didn’t program computers,

but they programmed love.

tireless, stubborn,

more real than DNA.

---

he clung to them

because they clung to him.

he didn't remember the womb—

but he remembered the garage.

the smell of gasoline,

the click of tools,

the hush of ambition

sitting in the space between

father and son

under a hanging bulb.

---

so when the truth came—

that his real father once owned

a Mediterranean restaurant in California,

that he might have poured his water,

refilled his breadbasket,

smiled a hollow smile

not knowing…

Steve said nothing.

paid the bill.

left no tip.

walked out.

---

“he’s my biological father,”

he said once.

"but I don’t want to meet him.

he’s just a man.

I don't owe him a thing.”

and he meant it.

every syllable sharpened

like the corners of an iPhone.

---

he forgave Lisa,

eventually.

he forgave Sculley,

barely.

he forgave cancer,

maybe.

but not the man

who didn’t fight to hold him

when he was tiny and unwanted.

---

Jandali tried.

sent messages.

told reporters,

"I’d be proud to meet him."

but pride,

when it comes wrapped in newsprint,

smells like desperation.

and Steve could smell it

from a continent away.

---

some wounds you don’t treat.

you let them become

part of the blueprint.

and for him,

that father

was just a cracked chip

in a sealed case.

---

but he met Mona.

his sister.

a woman of words.

she didn’t ask for his past—

just his presence.

so he gave it.

and they built something

honest,

without the rust

of old abandonments.

---

he never needed to say “dad” again.

he’d already used up that word

on a man who once drove a Dodge Dart

and showed him how to be patient

with broken things.

---

some men reconcile.

they hug at funerals.

they weep at reunions.

they drink old whiskey and pretend

the years weren’t a damn warzone.

Steve wasn’t built like that.

he didn’t update that operating system.

he just deleted the file

and emptied the trash.

---

he designed glass you could touch

but never smear.

and when people called it cold,

he called it perfect.

---

so no,

he never called him father.

he never went back to that table.

he never dialed that number.

and in that silence,

he built

everything.