The school contacted me on Friday afternoon to tell me she had been found by the janitor crying in the bathroom at lunchtime. The move to high school has been tough on her, and I’ve made multiple appointments to discuss her poor relationship with one girl. The bullying is one hundred percent verbal, and there’s no online abuse yet, but it worries me it may progress to that.
Girls are nasty, much nastier than boys.
All I remember from the schoolyard is the odd disagreement, a punch being thrown, and we carried on with our day.
When she arrived home on Friday evening, I asked her what had happened to cause her to break down at school. She shrugged her shoulders and started to sob. Holding my little girl tight, I hoped the tears would wash away the pain. Her mother is adamant that she mustman upandstop being a baby; it’s justhormones. I’m not so sure.
It’s Thursday afternoon, and Hannah will be home in a few hours. Neither of us has any plans this evening, so I decide to make her a slap-up meal. We can enjoy our food, watch a cheesy film, and hopefully open the lines of communication again.
Walking over to the fridge, I pull out everything I need to make her favorite—chilli, with a huge portion of cheese-topped nachos. Chopping the vegetables is soothing, with the rhythmic beat of the knife hitting the chopping board as I work.
My phone screen lights up and starts buzzing across the kitchen worktop. The name Beth flashes across the screen. I quickly wash my hands and accept the call, stuffing the phone between my ear and shoulder as I stir my concoction into the pan.
“Good afternoon, Lance,” she says, polite as ever.
“Beth, any news?” I ask.
“There is.” The smile in her voice is a giveaway; she’s in a good mood. I hope this means good news for me. “Lance, I’m delighted to tell you that he is Dog’s. Congratulations. You have a son.”
I’m speechless. My heart threatens to burst from my chest. Euphoria surges through me, along with relief. I never realized how much I wanted this to happen, or admitted anyway. I craved this little boy in my life.
“Lance? Are you there?” she prompts, highlighting my silence.
“Yes. Sorry, Beth. It’s just a shock. I knew he probably was, but now you’ve confirmed it. It just feels so real.” My words spill out; my Scottish accent thickening. Emotion overwhelms me, and a tear escapes down my cheek.
“I understand,” she replies softly. “Now we must decide on a plan to move him from his foster home to yours. I need you to come into the office. Today, if possible. We have some paperwork to complete. I’ll be here until 5:30 p.m. We also need to register his birth. Do you have a name in mind?”
“Yes,” I respond immediately, surprising myself. I had a few ideas for names, but it didn’t seem right to name him until I knew he was ours. “His name’s David.” I’m going to name my little boy after my lost friend. His father. Without Dog, Davidwould never have been conceived. I wouldn’t be getting this opportunity to be his father. Or see a part of my friend live on.
“That’s a lovely name,” she says, pausing for a moment. “And sentiment.”
“Thank you, I’ll be with you within an hour,” I tell her, unable to control my excitement. My fingers itching to sign. “When will I be able to bring him home?”
“Today possibly; tomorrow most likely. Do you have everything you need? We can supply some milk and nappies to get you started.”
“I have a crib.”
When this all started two months ago, I went back to my old house and dug Hannah’s crib out from the garage. It’s hidden in my shed. I’ve been secretly restoring it while Hannah is at school. Just in case. My buried hope grew with each brush stroke.
“Would it be possible to plan to collect him tomorrow? I need to speak to my daughter tonight. She’s still at school.”
“No problem, Lance. We can discuss all this when you come in. See you soon.”
“Bye, Beth.” I cut the call and return to my bubbling chilli in the pan. Tonight’s dinner with my daughter is going to be an extremely important one. The last supper with only the two of us before we welcome our new family member tomorrow.
***
Hannah sits, pushing the chilli around her plate, making patterns in the red sauce. Every so often, she picks up a minuscule mouthful on her fork and pops it in her mouth. She chews for what feels like forever before swallowing the pulverized mush. She’s as silent as she has been for the past weeks. Her defenses are on high alert.
“Hannah,” I say softly. “We need to talk.”
She nods, sighing deep, unwelcome acceptance already written over her face.
“I had a call from Beth, the social worker, today. The results of the paternity test have arrived. The little boy is Dog’s. He’s coming to stay with us.”
I sit silent and let her process the information.
Her expression morphs to impassion, as if this information is of no interest to her at all.