Page 3 of A Match Made In Evan
“And where does the charger live?”
Another eyeroll. “In the kitchen drawer.” Before I can respond, she practically whines, “Can’t you just buy me a spare for my room?”
“You can buy a spare for yourself.”
“With what money?”
“The pocket money you earn for doing your chores.”
Even though she’s old enough for a part-time job now, I agreed that her studies were more important, and taking up any spare time with work seemed cruel.
She pouts. “I need a raise.”
I can’t help but laugh at that. “We can talk about that after this meeting. Which,” I check my watch, “we’re going to be late for if you’re not ready to go in ten minutes.”
Squawking, Mia nabs the charger from my hands and presses a kiss to my cheek. “Thanks, Dad. I’ll be ready to go in five.”
We make it out the door twelve minutes later, which is actually a record for us.
***
I have never felt as judged as I do in this moment. Sitting in the extremely posh school’s office, it’s all I can do not to twiddle my thumbs and fidget. Mia sits beside me, dressed in her current school uniform blouse and skirt, and I thought I was presentable enough in my corporate wear of black slacks and a blue business shirt, but the grey-haired woman at the desk turned her nose up at me when I told her that we were here for a pre-enrolment interview with the principal.
She sniffed haughtily and asked, “Will Miss Durant’s mother be joining us?” and the look she gave me when Mia breezily told her that her mother has always been out of the picture suggested I’d already failed some kind of test.
I’m aware that there’s a whole group of misinformed people out there who believe a child needs a mother and a father to be raised ‘properly’, whatever the fuck that means, but I’ve done a fan-fucking-tastic job on my own, thanks very much.
I might have been frustrated with Mia’s lackadaisical approach to looking after her things this morning, but my daughter is the best thing to ever happen to me, and I am so proud of the young woman she is growing into.
She’s no less well-rounded just because she was raised by a single dad. She’s bright, and talented, and driven, and kind and…yeah, okay, maybe the woman behind the reception desk was judging me, the thirty-four year old single dad to a fifteen-year-old more than she was judging my kid.
But fuck that, too.
I’m a good dad. A great dad, even. I have been my child’s biggest advocate and defender since before she was even born. She became my priority the moment her mother told me her period was late and I justknewmy life was changing. I have never resented the choices I’ve made for Mia. I’ve never once regretted taking on the responsibility of sole custody. And she has wanted for nothing.
Hell, I was even prepared for teaching her about puberty and her menstrual cycle and all the things women seem to think men freak out about and can’t handle. I did it all with zero freaking out, mostly because I had no other choice, but that doesn’t matter.
While Mia was growing up, I played dolls and tea-parties and dress-ups with her. I let her do my makeup and paint my nails. I even wore the messy pink slashes on my fingers to work with pride.
As far as I’m concerned, Mia hasn’t missed out on anything.
But the look the woman behind the desk keeps throwing my way suggests that she believes otherwise.
Great. Just great.
I would hate for Mia to miss out on this opportunity because of some ill-informed prejudice. It’s bad enough that my job is more middle-class than the general populace of this school’s parents, but if Mia is turned down because she doesn’t have a mother, I’ll—
“Mia?” A tall, stern looking woman stands at the opening to the hallway leading to the area beyond reception. Her auburn hair is secured on top of her head in a tight bun, slicked back with so much product that it almost looks like plastic.
My back straightens and I stand immediately, my anxiety at being judged overshadowed by the disturbing feeling of being in trouble and called to the principal’s office.
Mia is much more casual about rising from her seat, tucking her phone neatly into the pocket of her green tartan skirt.
The stern woman’s expression softens ever-so-slightly with the smile she bestows on my daughter. “Follow me, please.”
I allow Mia to step in front of me, feeling the burn of the receptionist’s stare on my back the entire way to the office at the far end of the hallway. We’re led in through the door, and the principal shuts it behind me, then holds out her hand. “Bronwyn Michaels,” she introduces herself crisply. “You must be Mister Durant.”
“James, please,” I say as she shakes my hand and then turns to Mia with her hand outstretched.
