Page 27 of Secret Love

We take a time-out from all the serious talk and sit down at the table to eat. The conversation is light. Despite Cassidy still looking sad, I try my best to pull her out of it and so does Bree.

While the girls clean up, I refill my water bottle and chat with Bree.

“I haven't seen Alex in a while. How’s he doing?” I ask.

“He’s good. We had a good trip this weekend,” Bree says. She smirks.

“He's wishing he could do a workout with you and the guys. Get in shape a little more.”

I laugh. “He's welcome anytime, but he seems in shape to me.”

“Yeah. He's all talk, but he does sit behind a desk too long every day, so he could stand to get a workout in more often.”

Bree's been dating Alex for the past four months or so. I like the guy. He’s a financial advisor and way more type-A than I’ll ever be, which fits Bree a lot better. He's nice, but more importantly, he’s good to the girls. And he doesn't seem to mind that I'm around a lot, which is the way it's got to be.

I look over the worksheet Gracie is working on, and Audrey and Cassidy come back to the table with their backpacks in tow. When Audrey's done, she goes upstairs to get her shower and Gracie watches a show. I sit down with Cassidy and look over her work. She’s frustrated and puts her head on the table.

“Can you tell me a little more about what happens when you read?” I ask.

“I don’t even know how to explain it. It’s like the words just jumble together or jump around. I don’t know.” Her eyes fill with tears again in frustration.

“Would you like to do the tests Miss Seymour suggested?”

“Yes.” Her voice is soft. “I’m tired, Dad. Do you think I can go to bed early tonight? I’m done with everything that’s due tomorrow.”

“Of course. Get to bed. We can talk more tomorrow. I think the tests will help us know better the approach to take. That’s the impression I got from Miss Seymour anyway. Just please keep talking to us, okay? You know, you can tell your mom and me anything, right?Anything, always. It doesn't matter what it is or how hard it seems. We're gonna try our best to work through it with you and we'll love you unconditionally. Got it?”

She nods. “Thanks, Dad. I love you too.” She hugs me and I watch as she leaves the kitchen, looking older than I’d like.

I stop by Bree's office on my way out. “I’m heading out for the night.”“Thanks for dinner, Hen…and for everything. I don't know why I lost it, but I'll try to work it out on my own time. I want to be there for her the way she needs me to be. It justbreaks my heart that she has never said anything about this and that wemissedit.”

“I know. I hate it too.” I lean against the doorjamb. “I feel awful about it. But all I know to do is work our hardest to help her figure it out now.”

“I just don't want to put any labels on her that are unnecessary. You know? It’s hard enough to get through middle school without that.”

“No one's trying to put any labels on her.”

“I’m not sure. Miss Seymour was quick to jump on the dyslexia wagon.” She lifts a shoulder. “How old is she anyway, like twenty?” She rolls her eyes.

I’m pretty sure I flinch when she says that. That’s not possible, right? No. What am I thinking? She’d have to be older than twenty to be a teacher in the first place. My heart returns to its normal rate.

“The bottom line is that, for whatever reason, she needs our help reading. I think we should only be grateful that…Miss Seymour…saw what we were missing. Now we can do something about it.”

She frowns slightly and nods. “Yeah, you’re right. And I am grateful…it’s just hard to hear.”

I tap on the doorjamb and say goodnight to her and then the girls.

Why is it so hard to be a parent?

Parenthood seems to come with a built-in guilt mechanism, but holy fuck, the guilt is at an all-time high. I’ve considered myself a good dad—loving and present when we’re together. I try to say yes more than I say no. I try to let them know they’re the center of my universe but that it’s also important to pursue your passions.

But missing this…it’s proof that I’m not doing as well as I thought.

Knowing my daughter has suffered quietly all these years. It’s devastating.

“Later, Charlie,” I say to the night guard.

“Night, my man,” he says.

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