I wanted to go on the defensive, tell her that she didn’t know what she was talking about. She hadn’t lived my life and didn’t know my mind. But I didn’t blurt out the automatic responses that came up in my mind.
I was an adult. Soleil was a child. A scared, angry child who was looking for anything she could possibly find to push people away.
But I’d been where she was. Pushing away anyone who showed compassion for me because I thought they’d just leave me like my parents did. Soleil was afraid, lashing out. I’d said that I was someone she could count on, and she was testing me now, seeing if an accusation would be enough to test my resolve.
I blew out a breath as I reached for a ruler, examining it for a moment before putting it back. I kept my voice calm as I responded to her claims.
“You’re right, a lot of rich kids turn out to be horrible adults. Generally speaking, there are two types of people who influence the way people turn out. The parents…and the teachers. I don’t have kids, and when I do, they sure won’t be rich, which means if I want to change how the next generation of rich adults behave, I have only one other option.”
Sure, I was simplifying things a lot, but Soleil didn’t want some complex, psychological reasoning. Matter-of-fact was the best approach.
“If I can show these kids how to empathize with the people less fortunate, the people who have had crap breaks in life, then maybe, when they’re adults, they’ll remember those lessons.” I pulled the list from the basket and glanced down to see what else she needed. “And I probably don’t make as much as you think I do. Trust me, the whole thing about teachers being overpaid is a lie.”
That made her lips twitch. Not quite a smile, but close. Even if she didn’t believe anything I said, she wasn’t shutting me out completely.
Progress.
Seventeen
Alec
Theresa had gone back homeon Sunday afternoon as planned, and I hadn’t complained. I loved my daughter and wanted what was best for her. I just didn’t know if I could be that. So, I did what I did whenever I got worried…I scheduled the hell out of everything.
I set aside blocks of time for taking Evanne to school and picking her up, then made sure that I had Tuesday on the pick-up list in case I got caught in a meeting and couldn’t make it myself. But I didn’t plan on that happening often because I was changing how and where I worked too. During school hours, I’d work in the office, and after school hours, I’d work from home.
I put together a meal plan, budgeted for Tuesday to go on weekly grocery runs, and made calendar alerts for Evanne-related events, such as birthday parties or holidays or school trips. If any surprises happened, my assistant knew she had to be on call to help. I’d been a little worried that adding all of these personal errands would bother her, but Tuesday had taken it all in stride.
By the time I put Evanne down for that night, I thought I had every contingency planned for. I’d even had a great night out to think back on if things got rough. I could do this.
Monday was the trial run. I made omelets for breakfast since they were what Evanne and I usually had. My driver, Barnaby, drove us to the school, where I kissed Evanne and watched her walk to the door – I wouldn’t want to embarrass her at her new school – and then Barnaby took me to my office.
The workday seemed ridiculously short when I realized I had to pick Evanne up at three, so I had no choice but to have Tuesday pick Evanne up and bring her to the office in order to give me an extra precious half hour to get work done. By the time Evanne came into my office, I was ready to take things home.
Being thirty minutes off wasn’t bad at all. That was the point of a trial run, after all, to see how things worked and to make necessary changes. Maybe the answer was shorter lunches, to start. Maybe no lunches. I could eat at my desk and work at the same time. It’d probably make me seem even more like an antisocial workaholic, but if it gave me the time I needed to make things perfect with Evanne, I’d take it.
On the positive side of things, I successfully cooked a healthy chicken, rice, and broccoli dinner, and Evanne didn’t complain once about eating it despite it not being pizza in any way. After dinner, I caught up on work while she did her assignments and played Nintendo Switch, and we watched a Disney movie together before her bedtime. Then I worked some more, determined to see just how difficult it would be to put in the same number of hours now as I did before I became a full-time dad.
Tuesday morning, I discovered that the answer was ‘annoyingly difficult.’ In college, I’d often function on two to three hours sleep a night for weeks at a time. In my twenties, I’d had no problem pulling an overnighter. Now, I was sluggish enough that I had to get Barnaby to bring us breakfast. We ate in the car, Evanne savoring her doughnuts while I concentrated more on the massive cup of coffee than on the pastries in the box between us.
With Barnaby driving while we ate, we made up all the lost time, getting her to school in plenty of time. As I usually did when I wasn’t the one driving, I worked while Barnaby maneuvered through the traffic, and that put me right on track by the time we arrived at MIRI. Thanks to working during lunch and not having any surprises on my schedule, I finished in just enough time to drive myself to pick up Evanne. The way Tuesday had beamed at me when I’d asked her to forward my calls made me feel like I’d done something extraordinary even though I knew millions of parents juggled work and kids all the time.
Still, I was in a good mood when Evanne got into the car. So good, in fact, that I almost missed the question that came in the middle of her non-stop dialogue about everything she’d done at school that day.
“What was that,mo chride?”
“Daddy, are you listening to me?” For an eight-year-old, she certainly knew how to sound stern.
“I’m trying, but you talk really fast,” I answered honestly.
She giggled and shook her head like I was being silly. Perhaps to her, I was. Maybe all fathers were silly to little girls.
“I said I need your help on my homework tonight.”
My stomach lurched. “What subject?”
“Social studies. I have to make, um, a line.” She frowned. “That’s not it. Oh! A timeline!”
“A timeline? Of what?” I consciously relaxed my grip on the steering wheel and felt the blood flow back into my fingers.
