A Jamaican Adventure: Norman, The Good Soldier

By: Baron Stewart

The Good Soldier

As the streetlights flickered on each evening and the scent of fried dumplings wafted through the Kingston air, I climbed the fence at Mrs. Maxwell’s house and waited. I waited for the silhouette of a tall man in a felt hat bobbing through the crowd. That shape meant everything to me—it meant Norman was coming. My father.

Impeccably dressed, with an old-world charm that could disarm even the most stoic, Norman was in his fifties when I was born. He ran the Printing Department at The Daily Gleaner, Jamaica’s most-read newspaper. A self-made man. A family man. And unknown to me for years, a man with a wife and five other children.

He met my mother, Griselda, when she sold lunches from her pushcart outside the Gleaner office. Her beauty caught his eye, and their brief romance led to a pregnancy. Griselda was forty; Norman was fifty. I imagine they must have talked about whether to keep the baby. But in the end, my mother prevailed—and became a single parent with almost nothing.

She never acknowledged Norman as my father. I don’t remember ever seeing them in the same room. And yet, despite his double life, Norman visited me daily. At Mrs. Maxwell’s boarding house, he was the only person who made me feel seen. We talked philosophy, watched movies together, and I clung to his presence like a raft in a storm.

“If you can’t be good,” he’d say with a smile as he left each night, “be careful.”

Acts of Rebellion

I wasn’t always careful.

Most nights, after Norman left, I’d squeeze through a tiny window and roam the streets with friends. My favorite escape was Crown and Anchor, a fast-paced dice game played in smoky gambling dens with loud cheers and whispered curses. It was my way of fighting the loneliness left by my mother’s absence and my father's complicated presence.

Norman never asked questions. He didn't confront me when word of my misbehavior eventually reached him. Instead, he fell back on his mantra: “If you can’t be good, be careful.” It was as close to discipline as he could manage without disturbing the delicate arrangement of his life.

The Mirror

As time passed, I noticed Norman's attention drifting from me to Mrs. Maxwell, the same woman who treated me like a house servant. I fed her chickens, mixed sugar and butter for her cakes, and ran errands. When she began closing her bedroom door behind my father, I felt something inside me shift.

One evening, I knocked softly, needing to ask him something. The door had been left slightly ajar. A mirror on the wall revealed the truth: my father, sitting on her bed, was helping her undress. I froze.

Anger—sharp and breathless—gripped me. I hated her. I hated him.

He had chosen her.

Leaving Home

I told my father I wanted to leave. I didn’t say why—I hoped he’d understand without needing words. Instead, he gave me an ultimatum: if I left, he’d never come to see me again.

He meant it.

One night, I packed my things and disappeared, moving in with my friend Ronnie McLean’s family. I kept going to school blocks away, but no one came looking for me. Not Norman. Not Mrs. Maxwell. No one.

As a teenager, I was grateful for the freedom. As a father now, I’m stunned. How do you let a child vanish and not even try to find out where they’ve gone?

I tried to stay in touch. Once, I caught him on the street on the way to Mrs. Maxwell’s. I asked for money for room and board. He gave it to me, but our exchange was cold and clipped. Something had cracked between us.

The Goodbye That Never Was

When I prepared to leave Jamaica to join my mother in the United States, Norman didn’t come to say goodbye. I waited. I hoped. But he never appeared.

I wrote him several times after I arrived in America, but his silence fed my anger. Eventually, I stopped writing.

A Door Half-Open

Eleven years later, I returned to Jamaica and visited my old math teacher and mentor, Althea Young. During one of our long talks, she asked if I had reconnected with my father.

“No,” I said, unsure whether guilt or pride held me back.

She encouraged me to reach out. I found his number in the phone book—he lived on East Avenue in Greenwich Town. I called.

“Hello, this is Baron.”

“Hello, Baron. How are you?” he said, sounding relaxed and cheerful.

I realized he thought I was someone else—a friend, not his son.

Althea drove us to his house in her MG convertible. The journey from Jacks Hill to Greenwich Town felt endless. My stomach churned. What if he slammed the door in my face?

Instead, when he opened the door, his eyes widened. “Baron! Baron, how are you?”

“I’m doing well,” I replied, introducing Althea.

“This visit calls for a drink of rum!” he declared, but a woman’s face appeared behind him before he could move. His wife.

With unease, he turned and said, “It doesn’t matter now, but this is my son.”

Her face froze. I extended my hand, and she left it hanging. He forced her hand into mine—it was limp and quick to retreat.

I turned to him. “Dad, it looks like this isn’t a good time.”

I walked away before he could answer.

Final Silence

Back in the U.S., I received a letter. Not from Norman—but from one of his daughters, a woman I’d never met. She explained that Norman had died. While sorting through his things, she’d found letters he had written to me—letters he never sent. She had only just learned I was her brother.

I wrote back. I thanked her. I promised to visit if I ever returned to Jamaica. But I never did.

Her mother’s cold rejection had been enough.

Peace at Last

Years later, I attended a personal development seminar on healing emotional wounds. We were asked to speak to someone in the workshop and say the things we never got to say.

I spoke to Norman.

I told him I loved him, that I needed him. Watching him choose sex with Mrs. Maxwell over being my father left a wound I carried for decades. I cried—loud, wrenching sobs that had waited a lifetime to be released.

In that moment, I realized I had always loved him, even when I hated him, even when I left.

And finally, I felt free.

Reader’s Epilogue – What You Might Still Be Wondering

You may be wondering why Norman never came looking for me. I’ve asked myself the same question a thousand times. The only answer I can offer is this: Norman was a man of his word. If he said he would, then he would. If he said he wouldn’t, then he wouldn’t. When he told me, “If you leave, I’ll never come to see you again,” I didn’t believe him. But he meant it. His silence was not forgetfulness—it was discipline. Pride. Maybe even shame.

I believe he was sad when he read my letters. The fact that he kept them hidden all those years, and the light that filled his eyes when he saw me again, tells me he loved me. But not enough. Not enough to choose me over sex with Mrs. Maxwell.

He was late and tried to make amends in his own way. He came on a picnic with me, my wife Lennette, and Mrs. McLean. I learned the backstory of my visit to his house from that afternoon—his side. It didn’t erase the pain, but it showed me he was still watching and reaching.

As a child, I didn’t think of myself as “the hidden one.” I just knew something was off. I knew I was being mistreated, and Norman let it happen. When I complained, he’d say, “You’re still alive, aren’t you?” as if survival was enough. It is as if being kept breathing made up for not being kept safe.

I didn’t reconnect with my half-siblings, though I thought about it often. Pride got in the way. Sometimes I regret that.

I know this: I was never determined to be like my father when I became one. I made a vow—quiet but firm—that I would never leave my children behind. And I never did.

As for Mrs. Maxwell, I never saw her again after I left her house. I never confronted her, never forgave her. She ceased to exist in my world. I'll never know whether she loved my father or just used him. She never spoke of him when I was around. She never spoke to me at all, really—only barked commands.

In the end, what helped me forgive my father was the same thing that made me so angry in the first place: my deep love for him. I wanted more from him because I loved him. When I finally cried in that seminar—cried like a child who had held back for too long—I realized how badly I’d needed him and how much I still cared.

If I had five more minutes with him, I would say:

I waited for you to choose me. I stayed behind fences, in letters, and the silence of my pride. And now, I understand you couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. But I loved you, even then. I love you still. And I’m okay now. Really. I made it.

Jamaica, for me, is a complicated place. I carry pain from there—music, mangoes, mischief, and memory. I didn’t belong to a family or a home or a father. Not really. Not until I built one of my own.

That’s when I finally belonged to something I could trust.

Life Lessons from “The Good Soldier”

1. Love Alone Is Not Always Enough

“He loved me. But not enough to choose me.”

Lesson: People can love you sincerely but fail to show up for you. Their limitations are not a reflection of your worth.

Recommendation: Don’t measure your value by how others treat you. Learn to distinguish between someone’s love and their capacity to act on it.

2. Promises, Even the Painful Ones, Can Define a Life

“If he said he would not, then he would not.”

Lesson: Words carry weight—especially the words of a parent. The promises they keep or break can shape a child’s emotional landscape.

Recommendation: Be intentional with your words. Whether as a parent, mentor, or friend, don’t promise anything you’re not prepared to honor—or undo.

3. Silence Can Wound as Deeply as Words

“No one ever came to check on me.”

Lesson: The absence of effort, acknowledgment, or presence speaks volumes. Silence can be a kind of abandonment.

Recommendation: When in doubt, reach out. A simple “I see you” or “Are you okay?” might be the lifeline someone needs.

4. Unforgiveness Can Become Its Kind of Prison

“I never forgave Mrs. Maxwell… She was never important to me.”

Lesson: Holding onto anger can seem like power, but over time, it may quietly diminish your freedom to move forward.

Recommendation: Forgiveness isn’t always about the other person—it’s about reclaiming your peace. You can forgive without reconciliation, and you can release without approval.

5. Sometimes You Must Create the Belonging You Were Denied

“I only felt I belonged when I created my own family.”

Lesson: The family you’re born into may not provide the love or stability you need. But that doesn’t mean you’re doomed. You can build something better.

Recommendation: Be deliberate in creating chosen family—people who affirm your worth, show up for you, and let you do the same for them.

6. Pain Needs a Voice Before It Can Be Healed

“I cried like a baby for hours.”

Lesson: Bottled pain doesn't disappear—it calcifies until the right moment breaks it open. That moment, however painful, can be your rebirth.

Recommendation: Make space for your grief. Whether through therapy, journaling, workshops, or trusted friendships, let the pain speak so healing can begin.

7. Even Imperfect Fathers Leave an Imprint

“I was going to be the opposite of my father.”

Lesson: We are shaped by both the presence and absence of love. Your story doesn’t have to mirror your past, but you must first understand it.

Recommendation: Reflect on what you inherited emotionally. Then choose—consciously—what to pass forward, and what to leave behind.

8. Not All Relationships Will Have Closure—And That’s Okay

“I never saw her again… and sometimes I regret not meeting my siblings.”

Lesson: Life doesn’t always offer neat endings. You may have to make peace with unfinished stories and missed connections.

Recommendation: Accept the incompletions. Tell the truth about what hurts—and permit yourself to keep living anyway.

Parting Words for the Reader

Your story matters—even the broken pieces.
Love fiercely, even when it’s hard.
Forgive when you’re ready, not when you’re told.
And above all, build a life where you no longer wait behind fences for someone to choose you.