OD: Love Harry Potter. My son and I are reading the series together.
r /> Slytherin4ever: Really?
OD: Yeah.
Slytherin4ever: Which one are you on?
OD: The fourth.
Slytherin4ever: Why the short answers, OD? Don’t feel like chatting?
I scrub my hand over my face. She’s right. I don’t want to chat with her. I just want Say. And even though this is the most innocent conversation I’ve ever had with a woman on a dating app, I still feel guilty. I’m single, for shit’s sake. Haven’t had sex in forever. But the familiar guilt gnaws at my gut like a sickness. Jaw tight with frustration, I type my response.
OD: Kind of dating someone right now…or trying to, anyway. Don’t want to lead you on.
I tuck my phone back into my jeans, then head to the family room.
“Alright, Grady. Time for bed.”
“Come on––”
“I already let you stay up for an extra twenty minutes because Aunt Nora called. Go brush your teeth, okay? I’ll be right there.”
“Daaad,” he whines, but he’s bright enough to turn off the Switch before trudging off to bed. I rub the top of his head as he passes by me, turning his shaggy hair into a rat’s nest. He scowls at me in return.
“Come on, bud. Let’s get you to bed.”
After helping Grady brush his teeth, he climbs into bed, and I sit on the edge of it.
“What’re you grateful for?” I ask, finishing off our nightly routine with the same question I’ve asked since he was old enough to reply.
His forehead crinkles as he thinks about it for a second before deciding, “Miss Swenson.”
My eyes widen. “Your teacher?”
“Yeah. She’s nice. I like her. What are you grateful for tonight?”
Scratching the scruff along my jaw, I mutter, “I guess I’m grateful for Miss Swenson too.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I can’t think of anyone better to keep an eye on you.” I push the shaggy hair away from his forehead and add, “Speaking of which…wanna talk about the fight?”
“Daaad,” he whines. “We already talked about it.”
“You know I don’t condone fighting.”
“I know.”
“You don’t need to fight my battles, Grady. I can stick up for myself.”
“You said I should stick up for people.”
“And you should,” I clarify. “But I can fight my own battles. And sticking up for people doesn’t include hitting them in most circumstances. You got your dad’s short fuse, bud. You gotta control it, especially when you can tell someone’s trying to get under your skin. What are we in control of?”
“Ourselves,” he answers, his little body deflating as the memories of this same conversation over the years come full circle.
“Exactly. We can’t control other people. The things they say, the things they do. The only things we can control are ourselves and the way we respond. That’s what you have power over, and today….”