Page 15 of The Single Dad's Guide to Recreation

Only then does my girl hesitate. “He’s big.”

Sam nods as he glances over at his dog. “He is, but he especially loves little girls.”

Percy suddenly decides that he’s had enough of being carried and demands to be put down. Figuring it’d be best to let him run around a little before getting on the wagon, I deposit him on the ground and follow close behind to make sure he doesn’t start stomping on or pulling up strawberry plants.

When I check over my shoulder, Sam and Mabel and the dog seem to be getting along, but when Gomer gets closer to Mabel, I scoop up Percy and fly him back to the cart just in time to turn Mabel’s lips away from Gomer’s tongue. “Let’s keep this kiss rated G, okay?”

Mabel giggles in response to the dog’s slobber, but we’ve got limited time before Percy needs a nap, so I ask, “Can we catch a ride?”

“That’s what I’m here for,” Sam says, guiding us to the back of his cart, where we climb onto the hay bales lining its sides.

“Can Gomer sit by me?” Mabel asks Sam.

After I give Sam a thumbs up, Gomer hops in and settles at Mabel’s feet, without a command from his master. Like he knows exactly what she needs. Once we’re all in, Sam returns to the driver’s seat, clucking to the horse quietly as we turn in a slow circle before heading up the hill.

As the horse lumbers along, the kids squeal at every bump in the road. There are a lot of them, but they seem to be having a blast. My arms curled around them, the sun warm on my face, the scents of dog and hay and all the farm things in my nostrils, something unwinds deep inside my chest. The three of us have had some major bumps to negotiate over the past couple of years but on this perfect summer day, all feels right in our world.

When the wagon creaks to a stop and the kids and Gomer scramble to their feet, I hop up to make sure everyone gets down safely. Sam hands each kid a small bucket and while Percy fills his with dirt, Mabel listens carefully to Sam’s instructions and then proceeds to pick, murmuringTake only the most perfect strawberries.

Sam returns to stand next to me, Gomer sitting quietly at his side. “I really am sorry for your loss. That’s tough.”

Everything I feel about losing Lisa seems like the wrong thing to feel. Namely, I don’t miss her, and I feel more guilty than sad about her death. But people don’t want to hear any of that, so I say what’s expected. “Thanks. My parents have been great, but it’s obviously hard on the kids.”

Sam doesn’t press for more. Instead, he fills me in on his own career and life changes until his walkie-talkie squawks. He lifts it, saying, “Duty calls. Or rather, my brother’s girlfriend. I need to go pick up another family. You guys want to head back down?”

I’m not ready to leave the peace of this moment, so I tell him we’ll catch a ride back on his next trip. And then I plop down in the dirt with my son.

ChapterSeven

AVERY

Since I haven’t managed to connect with Josh in an official meeting, I’ve been using every free moment to jot down arguments I can make to convince him to keep Playgroup around, as well as ideas for changes to other programming at the center. By the end of the day Monday, I feel more confident about what I want to say.

But when I get home, all that goes out the window. The kitchen is a disaster area, looking like someone started and abandoned a few different recipes. That’s in addition to the usual piles of unopened mail on the counter, a trash bin that needs to be emptied, and a dog whining to go out.

As I’m putting on his leash, another whimper snags my attention. In the dim light, I can just make out a human shape in the cozy nook under the bay window. My father hand-crafted the built-in bench years ago and it’s been a favorite place for all of us to read or giggle with friends while my mom cooked dinner. These days, it’s one of the places my mom ends up when she needs to lie down.

An impatient “woof” from the dog startles us both, but I quickly reassure my mother so she doesn’t try and get up. “It’s just me, Mom. I’m going to take Lenny for a quick walk. Be right back.”

As our elderly Lab mix and I walk slowly around the block, I try to count my breaths like I read about on the internet, but worries about my parents and the rec center keep crowding in. It doesn’t help that my mother hasn’t moved by the time I get back.

“I’m sorry I didn’t take the dog out,” she says, her arm covering her face.

“It’s fine. I needed to move after sitting on my patootie all day.” Turning on the lights over the stove and counters, I ask, “Where’s Dad?”

“Um, I think he’s taking a nap.”

I can’t fix their health issues, but I can at least make sure they eat. Looking around the kitchen, I ask, “So, what were you working on for dinner here?”

My mother peeks under her elbow, like she’s afraid of what she’ll find. After a long moment, she shakes her head. “I’m honestly not sure.”

It is so hard to see her like this. This woman raised three kids while working full-time, and never complained a day in her life. She met every challenge like it was a game, and our house was always full of people—our friends, her friends, random other people—all drawn in by her effortless hospitality.

But long-haul COVID has all but erased that person. Just like chronic pain has turned my once-hearty father into a shell of himself. I am the youngest by eight years, a classicoopsbaby, so my parents were always a little older than those of my friends. But now, they both look and behave like they’re in their late eighties instead of late sixties.

I suppose it’s the way of things. In the end, you take care of the people who took care of you. I get resentful sometimes that I’m the only one of my siblings doing so, but I’m also the one who moved back home with my tail between my legs.

“I’m sure I can figure something out,” I say. “Do you want to go take a nap too?”

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