Page 88 of Off Limits Daddies
"Yeah." I can't take my eyes off her as she laughs at something Maya says. "She really is."
"We're lucky," Noah adds, appearing beside us with an armful of sleeping bags.
The drive back to Riverside feels heavier than the drive up. Reality waits for us at the bottom of the mountain. Marcus and his threats. Kyle and his obsessive behavior. The parent complaints and school board investigation. All the problems we escaped for a weekend are still there, waiting to crash down on us.
I glance in the rearview mirror at Lily sleeping in her car seat, her stuffed elephant clutched to her chest. Mr. Elephant, she calls him. The most important member of our family, according to her.
Am I capable of being the father she needs? The question has haunted me since the hospital, since the moment I learned I had a daughter. I'm thirty-three years old, spent my entire adult life focused on football and coaching. I've never changed a diaper, never helped with homework, never had to comfort a child after a nightmare.
But watching Lily sleep, her face peaceful and trusting, I know I'll figure it out. I have to. She's already lost one parent. I refuse to let her down.
My phone buzzes in the cup holder. A text from the athletic director asking me to call him Monday morning. My stomach clenches. That can't be good news.
The weekend was perfect. Too perfect. Like the calm before the storm in a game where you know the other team is about to unleash their best play.
We arrive back in Riverside as the sun sets, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. I help Mia unload her car while Jack and Noah handle theirs. The twins are exhausted, barely able to keep their eyes open as Mia herds them toward her apartment.
"Thank you for this weekend," she says, her blue eyes soft as she looks at me. "For everything."
I pull her close, not caring who might see. "Anytime."
She rises on her toes and kisses me, her lips warm and sweet. "I love you."
"Love you too." The words come easier each time I say them.
Monday morning arrives with the harsh reality of alarm clocks and responsibilities. I dress in my coaching gear and head to the academy, my mind already running through practice drills and game strategies. The athletic director's text weighs on me, but I push it aside. Whatever he wants to discuss, I'll handle it.
The parking lot is nearly empty when I arrive, just a few early teachers and custodial staff. I park in my usual spot near the gym and cut the engine.
Thankfully, the day passes fairly quickly and soon I'm ready to go home. Before leaving, I check Mia's classroom, but she isn't there. She could be in the parking lot already, or might have even gone home.
A white piece of paper is tucked under my windshield wiper. With a frown, I take it from underneath the wiper and open it up. There's only one sentence on it: typed, not handwritten:
Stay away from Mia.
36
MIA
The house smells like cinnamon and something medicinal that makes my stomach turn. I stand in the doorway of the living room, watching my father sleep in his recliner. His chest rises and falls with effort, each breath a struggle. His skin has taken on a gray, waxy quality that makes him look like he's already halfway to the grave.
Mom appears beside me, her hand finding my elbow. "Come to the kitchen," she whispers. "Let him rest.”
Mom sets two cups of tea on the table, but neither of us reaches for them. We sit across from each other in silence that stretches like taffy until I can't stand it anymore.
"I need to explain about Marcus," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
Mom's brown eyes meet mine, and I see the question there. The confusion about why I'd leave a man who seemed so stable, so devoted to my children.
"He wasn't what he appeared to be." I wrap my hands around the warm mug without drinking. "When I met him, I was desperate. Two babies, no money, no support system. He swooped in like a hero and I was so grateful I didn't see the strings attached to every kindness."
"What kind of strings?" Mom leans forward slightly.
"The kind that slowly strangle you." I force myself to meet her gaze. "At first, it was small things. He'd offer to watch the twins so I could study, but then he'd guilt me about how much he sacrificed. He'd buy groceries, then remind me I couldn't afford them without him. Every gift, every favor, every moment of help came with an invisible price tag."
Mom's expression shifts from confusion to understanding, and I see tears gathering in her eyes.
"He started dictating who I could be friends with," I continue, the words tumbling out faster now. "Said my study group was a waste of time. Convinced me my coworkers were bad influences. Slowly, systematically, he isolated me until he was the only person in my life besides the twins. And I let him because I felt like I owed him everything, and, honestly, I didn't see it happening. It was small bits here and there, so they weren't as noticeable."
