“I’m calling about your daughter Isla.”
“Is she okay?”
In my line of work, I’d been trained not to jump to conclusions. They were usually wrong and caused more grief than anything, but when it was your own daughter involved, you just couldn’t help it.
“She’s fine. She’s had a headache and a bleeding nose. I’ve called Mrs. Neal who’s on file as her carer …”
“After school carer. I’m her father. Mrs. Neal looks after Isla before and after school,” I growled, gritting my teeth.
It was an ongoing bugbear of mine. People assumed that I couldn’t properly take care of my daughter just because I was a single dad. Well, they could shove their opinions fair up their ass. I might not always get it right and I might not have a career as a hairdresser in my future, but I did my best. Isla was safe, happy, and loved. Nothing else mattered.
“Oh, I apologize, Mr. Steele,” she backtracked quickly.
“It’s fine.”
It wasn’t. And I was still pissed but whatever. Get on with it.
“Mrs. Neal is on her way to collect Isla and take her home. If you’d like to pick her up yourself …”
“Thank you. I’ll make arrangements with Mrs. Neal.”
We finished the call quickly and I managed to get myself inside the cab rather than walking into it, only to find Franklin still biting his fist and trying not to laugh.
“Fuck off,” I grumbled, buckling my belt and wiping the mayonnaise from my thigh.
“Everything okay?”
“Isla’s been sent home with a headache and bleeding nose.”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don't do that.”
“Do what?”
“Don't think the worst. I know she’s your little girl …”
“And always will be.”
“But you and I both know a bleeding nose could just be a bleeding nose. It doesn’t mean it’s a brain tumor.”
“Oh, fuck, Franklin. Now I’m thinking about brain tumors. Thanks a lot.”
“It’s Isla. She’s bulletproof. Do you remember when she was determined to learn to ride a bike?”
“Yeah. Lasted twenty minutes. Cried twice. Took all the skin off her knees and broke her wrist. How am I supposed to forget?”
“Yeah, but did she get up the next day and want to go again.”
“Bloody kid. When I said she wasn’t allowed back on a bike she dug her roller skates out of the bottom of the cupboard and was going crazy up and down the hall.”
“But she got back up.”
I couldn’t help but smile proudly. “That’s my girl.”
Before we could continue arguing, which could, knowing us, last all afternoon, a call came through and like clockwork, we snapped back into work mode as Franklin flipped on the siren.
