Train Me Daddy

Brett pointed down into the box and cleared away some of the packing material with eager little hands. Inside was a shiny box, covered in Japanese print and featuring a space-age looking machine.

“I don’t even know what that is,” I said. “Was there a card? Was it a gift from the office?”

“Dad, seriously!” Brett rolled his eyes. “Thanks! I can’t wait to play, I just wish it had come with more games!” He held up two shiny plastic cases featuring animated figures and racing cars.

“Uh, hold on there,” I said, reaching forward and plucking the plastic cases from Brett’s hands.

Brett looked sour. “Oh. I bet you’re going to make me wait until after I’ve done my homework or something stupid like that. Dad, please! Come on, just a half hour! And then I’ll do my work – I swear!”

“Hold on,” I repeated sternly. “We need to figure out where this came from.” As gently as I could, I pried the large box from my son’s hands and looked at the mailing slip. Brett’s name was printed in a plain font, along with our address. There wasn’t any indication of who had sent it, only a stamp from a post office right here in New York City.

“Dad, please,” Brett whined.

“You need to be quiet,” I said sharply. “Brett, if I can’t figure out who sent this, I’m sorry but you’ll have to return it.”

“What?” Brett screeched loudly. “You’re kidding me! That’s not fair! It’s for me, look right there,” he said angrily, pointing to his name printed on the box.

“That may be,” I said. “But I’m your father, and you need to obey me. And if we can’t determine that it’s safe, too bad. You’re not keeping it.”

Brett looked at me with hatred in his eyes.

“Brett, I’m sorry,” I said. “But this could be dangerous. This could be…oh, I don’t know. Rigged to explode or somet

hing.”

Brett squinted at me. “You’re being crazy and paranoid,” he said coldly. “You can’t even let me have fun because you’re too worried about your stupid business all day.”

“I’m only going to say this once,” I growled, grabbing the box and holding it in the air where Brett couldn’t reach. “You don’t ever insult me, or my business, ever again. Do you like having a nice life? You like living here, and having Isabelle around?”

Brett gave me a sulky look.

“Yeah,” he said after a moment. “It’s okay. I guess.”

“If I didn’t have my company, we wouldn’t have any of this,” I said sharply. “And you wouldn’t have fifty thousand dollars in the bank, just waiting for the day you go to college.”

Brett looked sour. “I just want to play,” he whined. His eyes lit up with hope. “Dad, if you…I dunno, inspect it, can you let me play? Just for a little bit?”

“No,” I said sternly. “Go to your room and do your homework.”

Brett glared at me. I could practically read his thoughts: “I hate you.”

“I know you’re mad,” I continued calmly. “But this is for the best, Brett.”

“Whatever,” Brett mumbled under his breath. He glared at me for a long pause, then turned on his heel and stomped up the stairs.

Just then, Isabelle came out of the kitchen. She wiped her hands on her apron and cocked her head to the side.

“Is everything okay, Mr. Thomas?”

I nodded and heaved a sigh. “Yes,” I said. “But when you have a free moment, would you mind cleaning this up?” I gestured down to all of the packing peanuts. “When everything is back in the box, please tape it up, set the box in my office, and lock the door.”

Isabelle frowned but she nodded. “Yes, Mr. Thomas,” she said. “Is that a present for Brett?”

I shrugged. “I have no idea,” I said, struggling to stay calm. “It arrived with no return address.”

Isabelle nodded. “I see,” she said. “Anything else, Mr. Thomas?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Please call my ex-wife and make sure she can take Brett over the weekend. I have reason to believe I’ll be entertaining.”