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Chapter Two
Dean
Sundays are always the same. Wake up, get dressed, make coffee, and breakfast. Grocery shopping, lunch at the café with my mom, and then whatever afternoon activity my five-year-old daughter deems necessary. Followed by dinner, bath, a story or two, and bedtime. That’s my life.
She’s my life.
I’ve become accustomed to going with the flow. When you’re a single dad, you learn to bend your knees in just about every little detail of life. Schedules change, things happen, or more often than not, things don’t happen. It’s a part of life for everyone, but none more than when you’re a singular parental unit taking care of a child.
My schedule isn’t my own. I know that, understand, and accept it. It’s been that way from day one. From the moment that tiny, wrinkly little girl was placed in my arms, I’ve been a goner, a victim of eternal love.
If only I could say the same about Brooke, my ex.
I have exactly seven minutes left before my daughter wakes up, and I’m not about to let unpleasant thoughts of my past damper my morning. As soon as Bri wakes up, my day officially begins. Never mind that I’ve already finished two loads of laundry, emptied the dishwasher, worked out, and showered, all before seven. Sleep is something I gave up years ago, and if I’m being honest with myself, I lost it long before Bri came into my life. I was in no way a partier in college, but I could stay up all night studying or getting lost in whatever book series I was reading. College was more about making good grades and securing a well-paying job than anything else for me. In fact, I think the only party I went to in those four years at university was when I went inside one to deliver a pizza.
My mother was a single parent and barely made ends meet. She worked her ass off at two jobs so that I could have the necessary basics that most other kids receive day in and day out. She did the best she could, even if we had to do without, and I’m forever grateful for her sacrifice.
I make sure the house is ready for the hurricane that comes with a five-year-old. The toys are picked up and neatly stacked in the storage bins, but I smile knowing that it’ll only last just a bit longer. As soon as she’s up, Bri will be all over this place, playing with every toy she can find.
When the clock finally hits seven, I set my coffee cup down and head towards her room. The pink walls are bright as the sunlight reflecting off the Bay filters through white curtains. She helped me pick out everything in her room a year ago when I purchased this house and we made the move to Jupiter Bay. It wasn’t a far move, nor a difficult one to make. Especially in light that we were only heading one town over from Ridgewood, the place where I was born and raised. And it’s also still close enough to my mom, who helps when she can with Bri.
She’s sleeping on her stomach, with her rear up and her knees tucked beneath her. She’s slept this exact same way since she was an infant. Another smile spreads across my face, especially when I gently shake the sleeping girl.
“Sweetie, time to get up,” I say soothingly.
“No,” she grumbles, turning and facing away from me.
“’Fraid so. Let’s get up and have breakfast. We have to meet grandma in a few hours.”
“I don’t wanna.” Her surly attitude doesn’t surprise me in the least. Waking up in the morning is her least favorite thing to do. She’s more of a night owl the way her mother was. Sometimes it’s difficult to get her in bed at a decent hour.
“Too bad,” I say with a laugh. Grabbing the Frozen blanket, I pull it off her and scoop up her small body. “Come on, sweetie. Let’s go to the bathroom and then get breakfast.”
I deposit my daughter in the bathroom and proceed to the kitchen. The griddle is hot and ready to make pancakes. I pour a few onto the pan just as Sleeping Beauty enters the room.
“I’m tired, Daddy. I want to go back to bed.”
“You know you can’t, honey. You need to eat so we can get dressed and get groceries.”
“Can I have mac and cheese when we have lunch with Mimi?” Mimi is the name she started using for my mom when she was learning to talk.
Flipping over the pancake, I ask, “Don’t you eat mac and cheese every day?”
“Yes, because it’s yummy.”
“It is yummy, but I’d love you to have something other than mac and cheese today,” I say as I pull the first three pancakes off the griddle. “Grab the syrup. You can have these,” I add as I set the pancakes on her plate.
Pouring more batter on the griddle, I watch out of the corner of my eye as she douses her food in sticky syrup. Looks like we’re taking another bath this morning. Smiling at myself, I flip three more and my stomach growls while I watch them cook. Fortunately, that’s the good thing about pancakes: they’re quick. Placing the food on another plate, I join my daughter at the table.
The rest of our morning progresses as we get ready, grocery shop, run back home to put them away, and finally head up to the café to meet Mom. She’s already waiting at a booth when we enter.
“Mimi!” Bri yells in the busy café as she runs towards my smiling mom.
“Good morning, sunshine. How was your morning?”
“Good. Daddy said crap when we were in the store. He got all the way to the front and remembered some’ting in the back.” Without a care in the world, Bri grabs the cup of crayons the waitresses always deliver to the table for her to color on the white paper placemat.
“Bri, we don’t say bad words, even if you’re repeating something Daddy said. Got it?” I say in my best ‘stern daddy’ voice.
