ONE
The brand-new cellphone in a glittery pink case buzzes on the countertop, and I glare at it like the enemy it is.
A cellphone for an eleven-year-old girl. Who the fuck gets that as a gift?
An irresponsible, absent parent trying to make up for not actually being in their child’s life—that’s who, I remind myself, because that’s exactly what Emma’s mom is.Mommy!with a bunch of emojis behind the name flashes along with a new message.
I can’t wait to see you next Saturday!
I groan as I read it, knowing the chances of that actually happening are near zero and already seeing the meltdown that will result.
Running a hand over my face, I decide that will be a concern for next week. Future me might hate me for it, but current me knows the fact that it’s nearly seven thirty and my daughter is still not out of bed is more concerning. Last year, I let Emma sleep in during winter break, and the first day back was an absolute nightmare, so I won’t be making that mistake again.
Padding down the hall, I poke my head into my daughter’s doorway and sigh with defeat. The lavender blankets she begged for last spring, when she decided the pink ones with princess crowns were for babies, are pulled up over her head, blocking out the light I flipped on ten minutes ago on my fourth entry into her room.
“Getup,Emma,” I say for the sixth time. “Aunt Wren will be here soon.”
I never thought I’d miss the days when a tinier version of my daughter would rise with the sun and wake me by jumping on my bed and demanding breakfast, but this phase makes me yearn for the early mornings and long nights. Now, I find myself constantly battling an almighty stubbornness, intertwined with the attitude my parents have been warning me was impending. Call me delusional, but I couldn’t imagine my sweet little girl ever being anything but sugar and sunshine.
I have since been proven wrong.
I’m convinced something happened the moment she walked into the halls of the Holly Ridge Middle School, turning my sweet baby girl into a preteen tyrant with more attitude than one small person should be able to hold in their body.
“It’s not even a school day,” Emma grumbles, rolling over and tugging the blankets up higher. Tipping my head back to the ceiling, I take in a deep breath and force my voice to sound neutral instead of revealing the brewing irritation that’s crawling in my veins.
Don’t let her know she’s getting to you.Don’t let her sense your weakness,I remind myself before speaking aloud. “We’re sticking to our routine, so when you go back, you’re not out of the rhythm.” That was my theory, at least, but it’s not going well. Obviously.
“Daaaaaad,” she whines.
“Get up, or I’m throwing you in a cold tub. Again.”
Three weeks ago, Emma refused to get up for school, and eventually, knowing she would miss the bus if she didn’t get going soon, I started a cold tub, then grabbed her from her bed, blankets and all, and dropped her into it. The water that splashed everywhere was a bitch to clean up, and the shrieks were nearly ear-splitting, but the giggles that were intertwined with them and the fact that she actually got up and out the door on time made it worth it.
Thankfully, it doesn’t seem like I’ll have to face the cleanup again, my threat seeming to work when her head pops out of the blankets, a burning glare hitting me.
“You’re the worst,” she grumbles, but pushes the blankets down and slowly rolls out of bed.
“Yeah, well, I’m the worst dad ever who happened to steal some cinnamon rolls from Grandma’s yesterday, so get up, get dressed, and head to the table before I eat them all.” Another glare shoots in my direction, this one less barbed now that my threat of freezing water is replaced with pillowy soft cinnamon rolls.
“Fine,” she says, rolling out of bed and stumbling sleepily to her door before she closes it in my face. I could argue with her about the attitude and rudeness, but she’s out of bed, and I have learned I need to choose my battles.
This will not be mine.
Less than ten minutes later, Emma is dressed and sitting at the kitchen island, picking at the center of a reheated cinnamon roll, when there’s a knock on my front door. It’s probably my sister, Wren, coming to watch Emma while I start on the decoration takedown at my family’s Christmas tree farm, where I live and whose maintenance I manage, but there’s no reason she’d be knocking. Not only is the door unlocked, but she also has a key and could walk in at any time.
“Who’s that?” Emma says around a mouthful of cinnamon roll, and I cringe at her.
“Jeez, Em, chew, swallow, then talk,” I say, moving toward the door. I don’t see the exaggerated eye roll she gives me, but considering it’s her newest trademark move, I’m sure it’s aimed my way.
“Who is that, Father?” she asks in a sugary sweet tone.
Glancing over my shoulder, I give her a glare I know will have no impact on her.
Emma, the unexpected gift that arrived when I was twenty-two, is what my mom calls the ultimate payback, given that from ages eight to twenty I was a headache—and then some. When I found out I was going to be a father to a girl, I thought maybe she’d be like Wren, sweet and cajoling, a daddy’s girl at her finest.
Instead, most days it feels like Emma got my sister’s best friend, Hallie’s, personality—full of fire, snark, and enough attitude to take down a bear.
“Drop the attitude, Emma,” I scold, another common refrain these days.
