D.I.L.F Dad I'd Like to Fight

Chapter One - Emilie

It wasn’t the drip. Not entirely, at least. The relentless and familiar sound only added a soundtrack to the sleepless night, but the root cause was something else entirely. I had a big case regarding a banned film starting underway tomorrow, and my brain refused to shut down.

“Mama!”

A cry in the dark pulled me back to reality and full wakefulness. Duty called in a different, more primal way.

Gen was already up, holding onto the bars of the antique, hickory crib like a pint-sized convict demanding their one phone call.

“Morning, baby.”

“Mama!” Gen rejoiced, lifting her little arms to me.

Gen giggled as I swooped her up into a cuddle, pressing her face against my chest. I thought maybe she’d missed nursing, but the doctor theorized it was something more basic than that. She missed my heartbeat, which she would have gotten very well acquainted with while in the womb. I’d have thought she would have gotten past that by the age of three, but my little girl was a sentimentalist, just like me.

Safely situated in her high-chair, Gen watched as I did the customary culinary dance routine. My dad used to say I looked like a ballet dancer moving around the kitchen. Fridge to stove, cupboard to fridge, according to eye-witness testimony, no matter how partial it might have been, I even stirred with some measure of grace.

Placing the miniature feast in front of Gen, at least half of it likely to end up on the floor, I contented myself with a breakfast smoothie. The concoction of fruits in various forms, from fresh to reconstituted, was basically a fruit salad in a glass, with a shot of yogurt just to be sure.

Time never really went how I wanted it to. Not that I wanted to turn it backwards exactly, though sometimes that would be nice, but just a bit slower, with occasional breaks to let us tiny mortals catch our breath.

There were so many instances when it would have been useful. Particularly for someone in my position. Not only because my system was already kicking me hard for the lack of sleep. Then again, I needed the time to get ready for the trial. It all came down to a matter of priorities. I’d made my bed and I staunchly refused to lie down in it.

Checking the car seat just to make sure it was still steady, I popped Gen in and buckled her down, just as the first of the early morning birds had started their song to greet the newly risen sun.

The Carrot Seed was a privately run daycare. Set in a house atop a hill in the weathered end of the old residential area, there were rumors, most of which turned out to be true, that the kids there needed to be registered before they were born. The waiting list was that long.

“Birdie?” Gen asked, spotting a robin in a nearby tree.

“Yes indeed, mon cherie.”

Gen was still a bit young for the full bilingual treatment. It was best she first learn the majority language of the country she was living in, though I still tried to slide in some French when and where I could. Just to get her ready. Apparently, it was best to do things gradually, and make it part of everyday life.

If you want your kid to be a reader, have books in the house. Looking to instill an appreciation of classical music? Play it in the car, or before they go to sleep. It becomes normalized then, not something rarefied or out of reach.

Beethoven came to an abrupt halt. Gen hummed the piece to the end as I unloaded her from the car. The parking lot sized driveway was otherwise empty, the owner’s Mercedes tucked away in the garage, itself the size of a small bungalow.

The opening notes of the 1812 Overture echoed beyond the thick door, an etched glass window set into the wood near the middle. It was through this I saw the approaching figure of Helena Ashcroft-Belmont, owner and supervisor of The Carrot Seed. A venture started when her husband suggested that she get herself a hobby to keep her occupied. The man had likely not expected where the off-hand comment would lead.

“Ms. Boucher,” Helena said, putting just the right amount of Dijon-accented French on the last syllable.

“Mrs. Ashcroft-Belmont,” I side, giving a dipping little bow.

“Oh come, come, there is no need to curtsy, I’m not the Queen.”

She could have fooled me. Though not to say Helena was particularly lording. It was just that she herself was so very polished, and everything she did damn near sparkled.

“Bonjour, Genvieve,” Helena said, getting down on a level with Gen.

“Bonjour,” Gen said, apparently to the ground.

Leaving Gen in Helena’s capable hands, Gen waving goodbye as I went, I set off to face my destiny.