Triplets Make Five

2

DAISY

“DILF alert!” Raven chimed in a sing-song voice under her breath as she nudged me in the ribs.

I turned my head to look in the direction of her gaze, and my eyes locked on her target; a tall, muscular man who has just stepped out of a shiny black Escalade parked on the curbside. He was dressed in running shorts and a tight-fitting compression shirt that revealed, in finely contoured detail, every perfectly sculpted muscle in his chest and abs.

“I love a man who works out,” Raven said, practically salivating as she watched the object of her

affection hop over the curb and stride toward the schoolyard.

“Does he work out?” I asked, wrinkling my brow and squinting to get a better look at him. “I mean, if he’s wearing running gear, shouldn’t he have jogged here instead of pulling up in a giant SUV?”

“Maybe he came from the gym,” Raven brushed me off, and kept her eyes glued on the man as he walked closer to our vantage point, on the stone steps at the back of the schoolyard.

“He’s not sweating,” I pointed out.

“Oh my God,” Raven rolled her eyes and turned to me dramatically. “Are you serious? Look at his abs!”

“They could be implants,” I shrugged, unimpressed.

“Urgh!” Raven didn’t bother keeping her voice down, but she didn’t need to -- the sound of children screeching and laughing as they run around the schoolyard drowned out her frustrated grunt.

“You’re impossible!” she vented, losing all interest in the hot dad and instead focusing her attention on me. “Why are you so damn cynical? You always think the worst of people! Who hurt you?”

“I’m not cynical,” I said. I chose to ignore her second question, even though I know she didn’t mean anything by it.

Raven Davis was my best friend, she was also my roommate, and fellow pre-school teacher here at Bellamy Day School. We met a few years ago when Raven first moved to Manhattan and, after becoming quickly disillusioned with the city, came to my neck of the woods in Brooklyn looking for a room to rent.

We instantly bonded over our shared profession -- we both taught pre-school -- and by the end of the week she was moving boxes into the spare bedroom of my Williamsburg apartment. At the time I was teaching at a little school in Greenpoint, but Raven made it her mission in life to convince me to join her at Bellamy Day.

At first I was dead set against it. Bellamy was a preppy, prestigious institution on the Upper East Side, charging a hefty five-figure tuition to teach the ABC’s to the offspring of doctors and lawyers, and celebrities and Wall Street bankers.

As someone who had spent the better part of her life being a ‘have-not,’ the idea of working for the ‘haves’ didn’t appeal to me. I always figured that I would use my teaching career to help kids with similar childhoods to my own. Kids who were lost in the system, who were poor, who were low-hanging fruit for bullies.

But the more I talked to Raven, the more I realized that some of the most overlooked and neglected kids were actually the pampered, privileged children of Manhattan’s elite. All the money in the world couldn’t buy these kids the comfort and compassion that they so desperately needed. So, I finally submitted and agreed to take the job.

Working at Bellamy Day wasn’t without its challenges, but I never regretted my decision. In fact, I felt more fulfilled in my career than I ever did working at Greenpoint.

“That’s Morgan Richie’s dad, right?” I asked, angling my body towards Raven but keeping my eyes glued to the ‘DILF’ as he made his way across the schoolyard aimlessly, his eyes searching the crowd of children.

“I don’t know,” Raven shrugged, glancing back in his direction. “I haven’t seen him before.”

I reached for the clipboard under my arm and quickly scanned down the roster -- a complete list of Bellamy Day School students, along with the names and photos of the approved parents or guardians who are authorized to pick them up after school.

I found Morgan’s name on the list, then dragged my finger across the paper to see a headshot of DILF himself. Underneath, the photo was captioned: ‘Father, Aaron Richie. Approved.’

“He checks out,” I said, and I glanced back up just in time to see Morgan Richie spot her father across the schoolyard and let out a high-pitched squeal as she flung herself towards his open arms.

“And he’s a good father, too!” Raven cooed admiringly, her shoulders melted and her hands fluttered to her heart as she watched the scene unfolding. This time, I didn’t bother protesting her comment, in fact, I felt a tiny smile tugging up at the corners of my mouth.

I may be a chronic cynic, and I may be overly scrutinizing of strangers but I’ll always have a soft spot for doting fathers. I think it comes from the void my own father left behind when left.

My eyes glazed over as I watched the scene, and I only realized that I was staring when, out of nowhere I feel a pair of tiny arms suddenly fling themselves around my legs, wrapping me into a tight embrace. I glanced down just in time to see a head of crazy, unkempt golden curls tilt back, and a pair of vivid blue eyes blink up at me.

“Hey Emmy,” I said, ruffling the child’s curly hair affectionately and smiling down at her. She returned my smile, and I felt my heart swell with pride. The little girl wrapped around my legs couldn’t be more different than the Emmy I first met last fall.

As a teacher, I was not supposed to have favorites… but in my heart, there was no debate about it, I’ve always felt a special connection with Emmy. She reminded me so much of myself as a child.