Guest post by Kevin Zoback

Ever since I was a little boy, I knew I wanted to be a dad of something. I wasn’t like most of the boys I grew up with. I didn’t care much for sports — I was more into puppet shows and action figures (G.I. Joe and Action Jackson — and maybe a Barbie tossed in there). One Christmas, I got a Jerry Mahoney ventriloquist dummy, and that thing became my son. I fed it real food — pretzels, cookies, milk, whatever I could sneak into its mouth. Of course, it would always get jammed. My mother was not happy. But in my mind, I wasn’t playing. I was parenting this thing.

I remember when I was 6 and the movie Oliver! came out in 1968. I was so taken by it — the orphans, the idea of no one being there for those kids. It stuck with me. Even as a child, I remember thinking: I would take care of them. I’d be good to them. I’d feed them anything but mush.

There was also a woman down the hall from us in our apartment building in New Rochelle, NY, who had a baby in 1972. I was 10 years old. I was constantly asking if I could come help feed the baby. I must’ve driven her nuts, but she always let me. I loved every second of it. That feeling — even back then — was strong: one day, I wanted a child of my own to feed Gerber applesauce.

Then came the Cabbage Patch craze of the 1980s, and I wanted one so badly — not because it was popular, but because I wanted to adopt something that didn’t have a home. Something to love. That instinct to nurture was always just there within me.

I grew up in a tight-knit, very suburban New Rochelle — bike rides, Saturday bagels, coupon clipping at Waldbaum’s with my mom. It was your standard 1970s upbringing. Rotary phones. MAD Magazine. The Partridge Family and The Brady Bunch. Saturday morning cartoons, Tang, Pet Rocks. You missed a show on your Zenith TV? Too bad. Wait for the rerun. No social media, no YouTube, no group texts. Just Schwinn bikes with bells and banana seats, comic books, Bazooka gum, and the occasional yelling parent from the window telling you to come inside because it was getting dark.

I didn’t know it then, but I wasn’t like the other boys in more ways than just not playing Little League. I kept a lot of things buried.

I went through elementary school bullied at times, and high school — the worst years of my life. Then came college in the ’80s. I went to school in upstate NY, where things were fun, wild, and closeted. Being gay wasn’t talked about openly in a coed dorm. You either kept it to yourself or pretended you were straight. I did both. I had a blast, made great friends, but I wasn’t fully me yet.

After college, I moved to New York City and got into media. My first job was with ABC. I lived in a cramped studio on the Upper West Side and jumped into the scene headfirst — working, clubbing, hustling, networking. I danced at the Roxy, partied on Fire Island, spent weekends bar-hopping in Chelsea and the Village, and worked my way up the corporate ladder leading a double life. I was out late, chasing deals by day and drink specials by night. It was a fast life. Messy and filled with stories, steakhouse lunches, and celebrities.

I left ABC after a decade to become the first sales manager at XM Radio and eventually began closing deals with Howard Stern when he moved over to Sirius. After that run, I moved on to iHeartRadio as a sales executive bringing voiced endorsement deals to A-list celebrities.

It was during that time that I finally came out to friends and family — although I had been leading a double life for years. Quietly. No big speech. Just me, owning it. I was in my early forties. It took me longer than some, shorter than others — but it was mine, and I was relieved when it was finally out there.

Years passed. I got older, worked hard, dated a little, and one day I woke up and it hit me. I was 49. Where did the years go? I panicked. I wasn’t in a relationship, and I didn’t see one starting anytime soon. And I didn’t want to live the rest of my life with just my cat. I was craving something deeper: I wanted to be a dad.

When I told my family what I was doing over dinner, the reactions were mixed. My brother thought I had lost my mind. My mother had always dreamed of being a grandmother — and since my brother wasn’t married and didn’t have kids, this was her best shot. She was cautious but open. Hopeful, even.

Some of my extended family? Not so much. My cousins cut me off completely. They didn’t want anything to do with me after they found out. It’s been over ten years since I’ve seen them. That still stings. But I wasn’t doing this for them. I was doing it because I had love to give, and I wanted to raise a child. Period.

I started the process with CT Fertility Clinic, searching for both a carrier and an egg donor. It was exciting. It was terrifying. It was expensive. But I was all in.

The first time we tried, it failed. I was devastated. I had spent nearly everything I had. No pregnancy. No more embryos. No backup plan. I felt like the dream was slipping away.

Six months later, after a lot of soul-searching — and cashing out my 401(k) — I tried again. And this time… it worked.

The surrogate was pregnant. I remember the moment I got the call. It didn’t feel real. At the doctor’s office, I kept reading the word “positive” on the test results. But it was real. I was going to be a dad.

Knowing I’d be doing this solo, I hired a live-in nanny — a warm, strong Jamaican woman who became a lifeline during those first two years after the twins were born. She lived in with me and helped me through the endless feedings, sleepless nights, diapers and doctor visits, the moments where I just didn’t know what to do. She didn’t just help me with the girls — she helped me. She became family.

My mom had been thrilled when the girls were born. She finally had the grandchildren she’d always dreamed of. But life had other plans. Not long after, she was diagnosed with cancer.

What followed was a nightmare. I was juggling two babies while trying to navigate the healthcare system with my mother — doctors, chemo treatments, hospital visits, insurance battles. I was exhausted, grieving before she was even gone, trying to be everything to everyone.

One day I told her we were going outside of the hospice for a little air. I wheeled her out past the nurses’ station, calm as can be, said I’d be right back — and then I took off. Full sprint, pushing her in the wheelchair down the driveway to my waiting car, her arms flailing, both of us laughing. I’ll never forget her face. She was laughing like a kid again.

I put her in the car and flew straight to New York Presbyterian Hospital. Pulled up to the ER, ran inside, and begged them — Please! She can’t die. Please save her.

They tried. But we lost her.

It was one of the most devastating, gut-wrenching moments of my life. I had two babies, no partner, and now no mother. My brother was somewhat helpful. But a good friend stepped in and helped me carry the weight.

Are there moments of regret? Honestly — yeah. I think back to that room with the Dixie cup, the moment everything began, and I wonder what I was thinking. There are days when I’m just completely overwhelmed. The world is on my shoulders — getting them to school, picking them up, grocery shopping, laundry, cooking, paying the bills, making sure we have a roof over our heads. Disciplining them by taking their phones away or grounding them. It never stops.

I worry about money going out more than it comes in. I’m never really at ease. I’m always juggling. There are days when I feel smothered by the routine, that there’s no one to pitch in when I’m burnt out. My friend who helped when they were toddlers and growing up has since moved on with his husband, so he is less available.

But then comes nighttime. The house is finally quiet. I peek in at them sleeping — my daughters, so peaceful, so still — no screaming or singing Drake songs at the top of their lungs — and in those moments, the chaos fades. I feel a wave of love that’s deep and pure. And in those moments, I don’t regret a thing.

In many ways, becoming a father let me relive my own childhood. We go to amusement parks, Disney, apple picking, trick-or-treating. Christmas is always a big deal in our house — over-the-top, with a mountain of presents under the tree. I went all in because I loved seeing the joy in their faces. It reminded me of how I felt as a kid.

They like McDonald’s, just like I did. They love the junk food I grew up on — so of course, I bought them Twinkies and Yodels, even though I pretended to be the health-conscious dad. We watched cartoons together when they were younger, Peppa Pig, played games like Twister, laughed a lot. It wasn’t just about raising them — it was about reconnecting with the kid I used to be.

They’re smart. Like really smart. Both of them are on the honor roll — straight A’s with the occasional B — and I always say, “They definitely didn’t get that from me.” I was more of a C+/B– kind of student, to be honest. So they must’ve inherited their brains from the egg donor. Either way, I’m proud beyond words.

Of course, it’s not always calm in the house. They fight — like really fight — and I’m constantly in referee mode trying to break it up before someone slams a door. One of them even had a boyfriend. I nearly fell over. The drama, the breakup, the crying — welcome to teenage life.

And then came the periods. When that happened for the first time, I was in full-on panic mode. I had no idea what I was doing. No playbook. Just me in the pharmacy aisle, Googling products and praying I was picking the right one.

And through it all, I’m trying my best to stay alive and well — for as long as I can.

When I first moved to the suburbs of New Jersey, my days were filled with babies and toddlers — bottles, diapers, bath time, playdates. I didn’t have a second to think. But now, they’re teenagers. They’ve got their own lives, friends, plans. These days, I’m mostly an ATM and a chauffeur — driving them to Sephora to buy whatever latest cosmetics trend is blowing up on TikTok.

And suddenly, I find myself with time. Too much of it, some days.

Many nights, it’s just me and my dog, Oreo, on the couch. I sit there and think, How did I end up here? In the quiet suburbs of New Jersey, in a house full of makeup brushes and soccer gear, far from the life I once knew. And there are moments — real, honest moments — when I would give anything to go back. Back to my New York City days. Back to the Porsche, the dates, the clubs, the energy, the feeling of possibility.

It’s lonely sometimes. This town is beautiful, but it’s very straight, very family-focused. There aren’t many single men around here, and I feel that. I feel the absence of community, of connection. I don’t know what the future holds — maybe one day I’ll head to Florida, or someplace warmer, someplace freer.

And until then, it’s PTA meetings, soccer games, orthodontist appointments, and writing big checks for summer camp.

Years later, I got curious about the egg donor. The clinic had long shut down, but I reached out to the doctor on LinkedIn. Days later, he replied: she said yes. We met her on a warm July afternoon by the Long Island Sound. I brought flowers. The girls were buzzing with questions. The moment she walked in, there was this calm recognition — a kind of familiarity I can’t explain. The girls hugged her instantly. She gave them matching bracelets. It was magic.

A few months later, we met her again — this time with her wife. Over pancakes and bumper lanes at the bowling alley, the girls laughed nonstop. Watching them together — this beautiful, unlikely constellation of people — felt like witnessing a little miracle. We don’t have a label for what we are, but somehow, it works.

That’s my life. Not the one I imagined — but the one I built. The one I’m proud of.

Even if I sometimes miss the old one.