Page 4 of The Match

She nods and chews her bottom lip briefly while casting her eyes down at her dog. Her service dog. There’s a binder tucked under her arm with the words Southern Service Paws written across it.

Ah—and now I have it.

Sam has been leaving their pamphlets around our house for weeks. She’s been begging me endlessly to let her get a service dog ever since she saw an interview of a woman and her service dog on an episode of The Wake-up Show. But I’ve been firm in my answer of no, and that answer still stands.

How should I proceed here? I’m frustrated that my daughter has evidently gone behind my back and contacted whomever this woman is without my knowledge, but I also know that she’s had a hard couple of years with her mom leaving and then being diagnosed with epilepsy. I don’t want to pile on by reprimanding her in front of this random woman. At the same time, it’s not okay for her to be pulling stunts like this. Ever since she was diagnosed, she’s been acting out in strange ways, and I’m not always sure how to handle her.

When I told her Natalie couldn’t come into town for her birthday last month because she got the flu (reality: she told me she needed to keep her schedule open for a potential audition she heard through the pipeline might come), Sam told me to cancel the whole party. I wasn’t going to, but she completely freaked out, crying and yelling that birthday parties were stupid anyway and she didn’t even want one. She’s quiet these days too—holing up in her room so much it worries me. She’s gone through a lot of difficult change, and I don’t know how to help her. I think it might be time to find us a therapist, actually.

I’m in way over my head doing this parenting thing alone. Sam needs her mom. Or rather, she needs a healthy mom, and Natalie hasn’t been healthy in a long time. Even before our divorce was finalized, she had slowly started to change into someone I didn’t recognize—not engaging with Sam as much and handing basically all parental responsibility over to me. And then she moved out, and now Natalie gives her image on social media more attention than she gives Sam.

The thing is, I’m all for Natalie pursuing her dream of acting. I even understood when she said she didn’t love me anymore and wanted a divorce. Yes, it sucked and it hurt like hell, but it wasn’t out of left field. We were married so young and didn’t grow together over the years—instead, we grew in completely different directions. So, I understood and supported all of that. What I take issue with is how Natalie has made our daughter feel unimportant. How she never makes time for her. How Natalie’s dream of making it big has completely taken over her life, leaving a hurting child in her wake. And each time I confront her about it, I’m met with a weak promise to do better next time. Even Sam’s diagnosis hasn’t seemed to affect Natalie much. It’s like she’s completely checked out as far as we are concerned, and it breaks my heart for Sam.

I turn to Sam and raise an eyebrow. “Did you email Mrs. Jones?”

“Miss,” the woman corrects quickly and then smiles. “It’s Miss Jones. Evie, actually.”

I choose not to dissect exactly why she felt the need to clarify her marital status and instead fix my eyes on my daughter. “Did you email her?”

Sam dodges my gaze and looks down at her hot chocolate. She presses her lips together and then crinkles her nose. That’s really not fair. She knows that’s her secret weapon to get out of trouble, and she’s using it now.

“If I admit to it, am I going to be in trouble?” Sam was born only ten years ago, but I swear she’s sixteen.

I refuse to look at Evie. There’s no need. I’ll be done with her in five minutes, and she’ll be on her way, and I’ll never think of her and her cute accent again. “How about if you fess up to it now I’ll only take away your iPad for one week instead of two?”

Most kids pout right about now. Not Sam.

“Five days and you have a deal.” Her brown eyes find mine, and she’s Natalie in the flesh. This girl is going to be trouble.

I can hear Miss Jones try to hide a chuckle from beside me, but I still refuse to look at her.

“One week. It was wrong of you to go behind my back, and you know it.” I go easy on Sam because, honestly, she’s a good kid, and even though she looks tough and rebellious now, she’ll cry in her pillow tonight if she thinks she has disappointed me. And even though I’ll never admit it to her, I’m impressed that she managed to hack into my email, impersonate me to set up this meeting, and then convince me to take her out for hot chocolate at the agreed meeting place.

I hope she channels this cleverness into curing cancer one day and not robbing banks.

“Okay,” says Sam, tucking a lock of her dark-brown hair behind her ear. “I’m sorry.”

Sam and I smile at each other for a moment, and I think I’ve handled this situation well. I don’t always come out on top of these parenting moments, but this one feels like a small win.

Miss Jones clears her throat and reminds me that I’ve still got a loose thread to tie up.

Or cut off.

“I’m sorry to have wasted your morning, Miss Jones. But as you can see, there was a little miscommunication between my daughter and me. I’m sorry for any inconvenience.” I’m just about to turn my back to this woman and join Sam at the table when Miss Jones speaks up.

“The morning doesn’t have to be a waste. I’m already here, and I have all my information with me. If you’re interested, we could still—”

“I’m not interested,” I say, cutting her off with a sharp tone.

I can tell I’ve startled her, because those glittering green eyes widen and her lips part. I don’t want to be a jerk to this woman, but I’m also not in the mood to deal with her or her sunny smile. And definitely not her long legs that I’m refusing to notice. Is she wearing running shoes with a dress? Did she jog here? Never mind. I don’t care. Miss Jones needs to go. She represents everything I don’t want right now.

“It was nice to meet you, and again, I’m sorry for taking up your morning.” There. I said it in a way that was firm but still nice enough that I could be cast in a children’s television show where I pull on a red sweater and pretend to like everyone.

I glance at Sam, and she looks so disappointed that it physically hurts me somewhere in my chest. I know she thinks having a service dog is going to solve all her problems, but she’s wrong. A dog can’t keep her safe. But I can, and I will. I’m not about to step back and let a dog take on the responsibility that is mine. If I’ve learned anything this year, it’s that I can’t trust anyone else to love and care for my daughter the way I do. Definitely not an animal.

“Are you sure you don’t want to hear just a little bit about the company or our process? I’ll even go so far as to mention that no question is too silly.” Is she serious with this? I clearly said no.

“In the email, it said that your daughter has epilepsy.” Miss Jones’s smile grows as if we are talking about a mutual favorite TV show rather than a life-altering disability. It grates on me. She looks down at her dog, and her smile grows more devastating. “This is Charlie. He’s been trained as a seizure-assist dog, but he also alerts—”

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