Page 66 of Pucking the Single Dad
I made it to the teacher's bathroom—my old sanctuary from my first weeks at the school. Brad followed, because of course he did, checking the hallway before shutting us both inside.
"Talk," he commanded.
"Three mothers just assumed I'd be here next year. Mrs. Patterson asked if I'm planning Finn's birthday party. The camplady gave me medical forms." I pressed my palms against my eyes. "They all think I'm permanent."
"You are permanent."
"Am I? We've never actually discussed—"
"Serena." He pulled my hands down, held them. "You alphabetized my medicine cabinet."
"That's not—"
"You bought Finn constellation pajamas because he mentioned once that he likes stars. You leave notes in his lunch. You learned the entireAvalancheroster so you could follow our conversations." His voice roughened.
"Brad—"
"You think you're playing house, but you're not. You're living it. We're living it."
"I don't know how to be a mother." The words scraped out. "I research 'step-parenting' at 2 AM. I have seventeen books on childhood asthma hidden under my bed. I practice conversations about feelings with myself in the car."
"Sarah used to practice arguments with Finn's future teenage self in the shower," Brad said quietly. "She kept a journal of all the ways she was probably screwing him up. She once cried for an hour because she gave him non-organic strawberries."
I stared at him.
"Nobody knows how to be a parent, Serena. We're all just frantically searching for answers and hoping we don't raise serial killers." He touched my face. "But you? You're not trying to be his mother. You're just... loving him. That's all he needs."
"What if something happens—"
"Something will happen. Multiple somethings. He'll get sick. He'll get hurt. He'll probably get his heart broken by some kid named Madison in sixth grade." Brad's thumbs wiped my tears. "But he'll survive it all because he has you teaching him that broken doesn't mean ruined."
Through the door, we could hear the muffled sounds of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star."
"We should go back," I said.
"In a minute." He pulled me closer. "Just... let me hold you for a minute."
We stood there in the teacher's bathroom, surrounded by motivational posters and antibacterial soap, while 20 seven-year-olds played their hearts out.
"The camp registration is due Friday," I said against his chest.
"Already filled it out," he admitted. "I put you as the emergency contact. And the primary contact. And the person authorized to make medical decisions."
"Brad—"
"Too much?"
I pulled back, looked at him—this man who'd given me his son's heart to hold, his trust, his family.
"No," I said. "It's exactly right."
When we returned, Finn was taking his bow, recorder held high like a trophy. He found us in the crowd, his smile incandescent.
"Did you see?" he mouthed.
"We saw," I mouthed back.
And maybe that was enough. Maybe seeing was all any of us could promise—to see each other, to show up, to stay.
