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MyphonevibratesandI see it's Mr. Bardin.
I force myself to think of him like that instead of using his first name. It helps keeps things more professional.
Or so I tell myself.
Joyce, can you work an hour overtime? I’m in the middle of a never-ending meeting.
I look at my phone and sigh. This has become a habit for the last month: Mr. Bardin says he’s going to be an hour late, he ends up being three hours late, and I miss my classes every time.
Yet, I can’t say no.
I can, Mr. Bardin. But we need to talk.
I hit send.
He takes a long time typing, and when the message comes, it is much shorter than I thought it would be.
Why do I feel like I won’t enjoy that conversation?
I smile softly as I text him back:
It’s just some work technicalities. Nothing awkward!
His next message is short and sweet.
Oh, okay.
It makes me feel like I just threw a bucket of ice water on him.
Anna is by my side, playing with an educational jigsaw puzzle I found at the local library. She’s smart and putting it together easily — I’ll need to bring something more advanced for her next time.
“How are you doing with the puzzle?” I lean forward to inspect the puzzle, which is just about done.
“Just one more piece!” she says with excitement, holding the last piece in the air like a trophy.
As she finishes it, I watch her and carefully consider how to tell her that her dad will be late again. She’s always sad when he is, but happy she’ll be spending more time with me. She is adjusting to seeing her father less. It’s like she is growing more accustomed to my presence than his.
There’s got to be a way to not let that happen.
“Daddy is going to be late again, Anna,” I inform her.
“But you’re staying, right?” She doesn’t even bat an eyelash.
“Yes, Mary is too busy to take care of you, so it’s my duty to watch you!” I salute her and she giggles.
“Do you have another one?” Anna asks me, pointing to the puzzle.
“I don’t, sweetie, I’m sorry!” I say with regret. She pouts briefly, but lets it go.
I tell her, “But I have another idea!”
I go to the section of her closet reserved for the games she can only play while supervised. I pick up a humble set of jackstraws someone didn’t put much thought into gifting her.
But she looks at it with interest and reaches out to touch it as soon as I sit down with her again.
“What is this?” she asks.
“Have you played jackstraws before?” I answer with a question, taking the can in my hands to open it.
