“Great. I’ll be right back.” I give Emma a quick look—be good—and head to the kitchen.
I’m hoping that if I give them a little more time alone together, Emma will warm up to Patricia even more. Maybe even get excited about the idea of her coming back. That would make this whole transition easier.
Change is hard for kids. Developmentally, they thrive on routine and predictability because their prefrontal cortexes are still developing. They don’t have the executive function to regulate emotional responses to disruption the way adults do. Well,theoreticallyadults do. In practice, most adults are also terrible at handling change. We’re just better at constructing narratives of control while quietly falling apart.
So I understand Emma’s frustration with all of this. The rotating cast of babysitters, the constant disruption to her routine, the fact that nothing feels stable right now. But I’m hoping to find someone who makes the transition feel less jarring. Someone fun and bright and adaptable who can keep up with Emma’s energy and curiosity. Patricia seems like all of those things. She seems like someone who could impose order without crushing spirit, who could meet Emma’s keen curiosity with engaged intelligence. Through the doorway, I hear the script playing out. Patricia’s voice, a model of warm inquiry: “And which Barbie is your favorite?” Emma’s reply, enthusiastic but performative, the version of herself she offers to newcomers. It sounds…good. Promising.
When I peek back into the living room, mug in hand, the scene appears transformed. Emma has closed the physicaldistance, now nestled on the couch beside Patricia. She holdsThe Very Hungry Caterpillaraloft, her small finger tracing the famous glutton’s path. “…and then he eats through one piece of chocolate cake, and one ice cream cone, and one pickle—”
“Apickle?” Patricia’s voice is a masterpiece of performative shock, pitched perfectly for a four-year-old audience. “After ice cream?”
“I know!” Emma giggles. “That’s why he gets a tummy ache!”
Back at the sink, I scrub the mixing bowl. The sticky batter clings to the whisk, a glutinous mess. I focus on the tactile sensation—hot water, the scrape of sponge on steel—to quiet the buzzing thoughts spinning through my head. When I return with two cups of tea, they’re both laughing. Emma has turned to the page of the caterpillar’s miraculous transformation and is explaining, with the solemn authority of a tiny professor, the process of metamorphosis.
“See, he builds the cocoon—it’s called a chrysalis—and inside, all his caterpillar parts turn into soup! And then the soup makes the butterfly!”
“That’s incredible,” Patricia says, her laughter smoothing into a tone of polished admiration. She quietly accepts the mug I offer. “Thank you. So, you teach neuroscience, you said?”
“Yes. Memory consolidation during sleep.”
“Oh, fascinating. So how the brain files things away at night?” she asks, taking a polite sip.
“Essentially. We look at the synaptic changes during different sleep stages.”
“That must be incredibly demanding. Juggling the lab, teaching, and single fatherhood.” Her smile is a calibrated blend of sympathy and professional respect. “I don’t know how you do it all.”
“Most days, I don’t,” I admit, the weariness seeping through.
“I’m sure you’re doing better than you think.” She pauses, setting her tea down with deliberate care. Her gaze flicks to Emma, then back to me, her voice dropping into a carefully neutral register. “And Emma’s mother? Is she involved at all, or…?”
The air in the room changes. It’s a subtle shift, a drop in barometric pressure. I feel Emma go rigid beside me, a small statue of sudden tension.
“It’s just the two of us here,” I say, my own voice flattening in response.
“Oh, I see. I didn’t mean to overstep—”
“Her mother is…not presently with us.” It’s the vague, cowardly phrasing I’ve adopted for interviews, a linguistic fig leaf.
Emma’s head snaps up. “She’s notgone, Dad.”
“Em, not now.”
“She’s NOT!” Her voice cracks, getting louder. “You keep saying she’s gone but she’s not! She’s coming back!”
“Emma, we’ve talked about this—”
“No!” She’s off the couch now, fists clenched at her sides. “You keep bringing these ladies here and you want them to be my new mom but you can’t make them be my mom because I ALREADY HAVE ONE!”
“Emma, that is not what this is.” My voice is low, a plea and a warning.
“YES IT IS! SHE’S COMING BACK! SHE’S JUST… SHE’S JUST LOST RIGHT NOW!” The raw, desperate logic of it hangs in the air, more heartbreaking than any tantrum.
Patricia leans forward, adopting a posture of concerned intervention. “Emma, sweetheart, it’s okay to be upset—”
“DON’T CALL ME THAT!” Emma whirls, a tiny fury with tear-bright eyes. “You’re not my mom! Stop using her words!”
“I’m not trying to be your mom, I’m just trying to—”
