Page 7 of My Billionaire Seal Next Door

I shake my head. It will be the fifth meeting with the school though. For the last one we even called the parents of two of the bully kids in to join us in the meeting and guess what they did - they denied everything. They actually had the audacity to tell me that my kid made it all up, despite the bruises on her arms. It's parents like that that really make me sick. They are just allowing their kids to be total assholes and not teaching them to take responsibility for their actions in any way.

Then again, I think to myself, a bully is usually created at home - in a bad home environment, so I know that most of the time, not all, but most of the time the problem actually starts with the parents and spills over to the kid. Creating a jerk of a kid that the parents do nothing about.

So, talking to the school has not helped - and talking to the other parents has not helped. I sigh and rub my eyes in frustration.

What else can I do? I need to think of something.

I will definitely try one more time at the school. Then maybe I need to start looking at getting Isabella in with a counselor or something.

Isabella walks out of the bathroom in her pink pajama onesie and my heart aches in my chest. She looks miserable.

"Dad, I'm not really hungry tonight." She mumbles.

"You must speak up clearly, Isabella. And you have to eat. There is no discussion about that."

She turns her face away from me but nods. She sniffs softly and I wonder if she's been crying again. I hate it when she cries. Crying shows weakness and that was never allowed in my childhood and of course, it was unheard of in the military.

I am doing my best as a dad, but I think my no-nonsense, harder approach to everything might not be working for my little girl. She really needs a mom. Her mom was tough as nails but with the softest heart. I struggle to get onto the same level. I do not know how to speak gently to her or give her encouraging or more supportive words. I struggle to be emotional with her because all I have ever wanted to do was show her that I was strong enough after her mother passed away. I wanted her to know that I would be here no matter what - that I would be the rock she needed. I never opened up emotionally and I never even spoke to her much about her mother after she died. I wonder if that was not the best way to do things. Maybe I should try and be more emotionally supportive instead of being so hard on her all the time. I just do not know how to do that.

Isabella wanders through to the dining room table with her shoulders hunched over. "Don't hunch like that, sweetheart." I say, "Come here and grab us some plates and knives and forks and lay them on the table for us. Dinner is almost ready."

Isabella turns around and tries her best to stand straight, but I can see the defeat in her. She gathers the cutlery and slowly sets the table while I finish up with dinner and bring the food to the dining room.

Isabella stays quiet and I don't really know what else to say to her.

We eat in silence, and she excuses herself from the table.

"I am just going to go to bed, Dad. I don't feel like any stories tonight."

"OK, sweetheart. I'll come through and tuck you in in a bit."

"No. That's ok. I will already be asleep." She mumbles and walks away.

I sigh quietly to myself and clear the dishes away. Yes, tomorrow afternoon I need to schedule a meeting with the head of her school and talk to them again. This is really weighing on Isabella a lot and I can't just let it slide anymore.

The next day I have a meeting and Isabella is set to get a lift home from school with one of our neighbors. I have not had a chance to call the school yet, but I make a note to do that as soon as I get home.

It is late afternoon when I pull into the driveway, tired after a long meeting with a new potential client. The meeting has gone well but I feel drained.

I pick up the takeout food sitting on the passenger seat. I'm not in the mood to cook tonight, and I head into the house.

I find Isabella on the sofa in the living room. She does not jump up and run to greet me like she usually does. She keeps her back to me, and I put the takeout down in the kitchen, curious about what is wrong with her.

"Hey, munchkin? Don't I get a hug?"

She shrugs and still does not turn to look at me.

"Isabella? What is wrong?" I say with a stern voice, and she jumps a little then slowly turns her face towards me.

I stand in absolute horror seeing my daughter's black eye.

Her eyelid is slightly swollen, and the shining bruise is already darkening even though it obviously only just happened today.

I freeze. trying to hold back my initial reaction of absolute rage. She does not need me to be shouting or yelling at her over my anger at some asshole kid who did that to her. I hold my breath for a second and take slow steps towards her. Then I sit next to her on the couch and pull her into my arms. Her tiny body starts to shake as the tears engulf her and she buries her face against my chest.

"Oh, munchkin," is all I can manage to say as feelings of complete inadequacy swarm through me. How has it gotten so far? How have I not managed to solve this yet? How has nothing worked and why is my daughter still having to go through this horrible experience?

I pull her away from me and hold her face in my hands so that I can get a good look at her. And then I wish I hadn't. I can see how hard she was hit. I know by the deepness of the bruising.

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