Page 5 of The Single Father Upstairs

Ahhh, lemon frosting. It was Indigo’s favorite and mine too. She was arguing with herself, accompanied by metal being plonked on a hard surface and something clattering into the sink.

“No, the blue ones go on top. Blue is my favorite color, and it’s my birthday, so I get to decide.”

Is she talking to her beast? Did her bear appear on Indigo’s birthday?My beast was eager to have someone else to shift with.

I doubt it because the apartment would be a wreck. And it looked much the same as always as I pried open my eyes further.

Oh, well, she’s not wrong. The birthday girl gets to choose.

Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I stumbled into the kitchen. Indigo was teetering on a chair, which she wasn’t supposed to do in the kitchen, and rearranging a box of cupcake toppers. She didn’t react when I came in, and that combined with her furrowed brow suggested she was concentrating hard.

My baby was nine years old. How did that happen? When she was born, she was the length of my forearm.

I grabbed my daughter’s waist and put her on the floor. “Off the chair, my birthday girl. Not with the stove right there.”

Indigo rifled through my PJ pockets and lifted my arms before making me take off my slippers.

“Where is it?”

I folded my arms and pretended I had no clue what she was talking about. “What?”

“My present. I’m nine, Dad.”

I tapped my lips. “Hmmm, I thought being overrun with eleven or twelve children later was present enough. But you say you want more?”

Indigo folded her arms, imitating me. No one could mistake us for anything other than father and daughter.

I strolled toward the ancient filing cabinet in my office nook, but Indigo tore past me and flung open all four drawers. She squealed when she peered into the bottom one and pulled out her present wrapped in blue tissue paper.

“Dad, I love it.”

“You haven’t unwrapped it yet.”

“But I know I’m going to love it.”

I wished I could be as enthusiastic about life as Indigo, but I’d lost that zest somewhere along the way.

She ripped the paper and held up the wooden keepsake box I’d made with her name carved on the lid. She flung her arms around me and then raced into her room with the box, saying she had tons of stuff to put in there.

Ahhh, peace reigned and I made a coffee. I’d need more than one to prepare for the onslaught of kids we’d invited.

By noon the apartment was filled with eleven shifter children, while the adults dropped them off and scuttled out the door, probably thankful to have an afternoon of quiet.

I did my best to corral everyone toward the food and the games Indigo had organized. Balloons burst when someone’s claws appeared, and I put in earplugs so my bear wasn’t freaked out by the constant popping.

The doorbell rang. That would be the twelfth and last child, and when I opened the door, the girl who waltzed in was the infamousI met my beastchild who’d spent a day being grilled by the principal.

“I’m not going to shift,” she announced.

“Excellent. Enjoy birthday cake instead.”

The partygoers moved into my daughter’s room, but when someone knocked at the door, Indigo ran past me and flung it open.

“Uncle Bernie.” She threw herself into his arms, and he lifted her up and gave her a bear hug.

“Who is this nine-year-old? I don’t recognize her.”

Indigo giggled and took the present he offered. “Thank you.”