“I just wanted to flag it,” Ms. Jenson says, her hands folded in front of herself. “She’s been quieter this week, a little more clingy at drop-off. And when we did feelings circle yesterday, she said she felt sad because her family is‘broke up.’”
The phrase hits like a helmet-to-helmet collision. No padding. No gear. No time to brace.
“She said it like that?” I ask, voice rough. “Broke up?”
Ms. Jenson winces. “Kids repeat what they hear.”
Right.
I don’t need a playbook to know where she heard that.
My ex-wife’s voice plays in my head, sharp as glass:This is what happens when families break up, Grayson.
“I… I mean, she’s okay otherwise, right?” I search the room for my kid like she might suddenly appear and prove this conversation unnecessary.
But the classroom behind Ms. Jenson is chaotic now—tiny tables, tiny chairs, paper suns taped to windows, children running around like they’ve never had the chance to before, just because it’s the morning and they somehow don’t need coffee.
“She’s still participating,” Ms. Jenson says. “Still playing. It’s just a shift. I thought you’d want to know.” She hesitates. “Is everything okay at home?”
There it is.
The question I’ve been bracing for since the day I signed the divorce papers and kicked Halsey out of the house eight months ago.
Is everything okay at home?
I drag a hand over the back of my neck. The skin there is tight, hot.
“We’re… still adjusting,” I say. “There’s been some schedule changes with her mom lately, so I guess Pen’s feeling it more. And the nanny’s been in and out. But she’s—I mean, she’s safe. She’s loved.”
“I can tell she’s loved,” Ms. Jenson says quickly. “She talks about you all the time. Her daddy this, her daddy that, Sparkks Sports, the big building with your name on it.” She softens a little. “She’s proud of you.”
Great. At least someone is.
“She also said she misses when you and her mommy‘all lived together,’” Ms. Jenson adds gently. “Sometimes kids that age think it’s their fault. It might help to reassure her it’s not.”
I swallow, the lump in my throat hard enough to choke on. “Yeah. Yeah, okay, I’ll talk to her.”
“Good.” Ms. Jenson gives me a small, earnest smile. “You’re doing a good job, Mr. Sparkks. Really. And it’s not like this is unique; I’ve seen hundreds of kids go through this. Don’t worry too much.”
I nod, but it bounces right off.
A dad doing a good job doesn’t have to have this conversation in a fluorescent-lit classroom. A dad doing a good job doesn’t show up ten minutes late to preschool drop-off with a four-year-old who fell asleep in the car because she was up too late waiting for a mother who never showed.
“Thank you,” I manage.
In the hallway, the finger-paint on the walls blurs—snowmen, crooked houses, stick figure families that actually have two adults in them. I catch a glimpse of Penelope through the window of the next room, sitting crisscross on the rug, curls pinned into two buns I’ve mastered, holding her stuffed unicorn in the crook of one arm. She laughs at something another little girl says, her whole face lighting up.
It should make me feel better.
Instead, it makes my chest ache.
By the time I’m back in the car, my mood’s circling the drain.
The dashboard clock glares eight-twenty-seven at me like an accusation.
I was supposed to be at the office at eight. I was supposed to have time to skim the revised NFL partnership proposal before the ten o’clock call. I was supposed to drop Penelope off and talk about picture day on Thursday, or the stuffed animal sleepover the school is doing on Friday — not whether my kid is quietly falling apart while I’m dashing between meetings.
My phone buzzes in the cupholder.
