Page 65 of The Single Dad Project

She fell silent for a moment, her expression clouded. But then she blinked, her eyes focusing back on him.

“One of my earliest memories is of Moe brushing and styling Leo’s and Sinead’s hair. She would sit them between her legs or on her lap, get the brush and comb, and they’d talk and laugh while she put their hair up in soft, silky ponytails or let it hang all long and straight down their backs. And then there was me. Moe tried. I’ll give her that. But because she had no experience with Black hair, mine started to shed then break off from washing it every day like my sisters. My hair was thick, coarse, so very different from Leo’s and Sinead’s. She usually went with a ball or puff. But Moe being Moe, she understood how important a girl’s hair is to her. Especially a Black girl’s hair. So she started making appointments at the local Black-owned hair salon as well as having Ms. Eva, a friend of the family, come in to braid my hair when we couldn’t make it to the shop.”

Adam nodded, understanding everything Flo said. Justine was only five. And though Adam made it a point to instill in her that being kind, considerate and unselfish were more important than beingpretty, he still understood his little girl needed to hear she was just that—pretty. She needed to feel confident about her appearance, and that included her hair. Especially her hair. Because for the Black culture, it represented identity, creativity, expression...freedom.

And yet, he also empathized with Flo’s adopted mother because he was that parent of a Black girl with no idea what to do with her hair. Afraid he would damage not just it, but her self-esteem. Being a parent wasn’t easy. Matter of fact, it was the hardest damn job ever created.

And the best.

“It sounds like your Moe understood one of her children had different needs and did everything in her power to make sure you were good,” he said.

“Oh, definitely.” She nodded her head. “Moe didn’t rely on others. She learned how to do some things, too. And, as an adult looking back, it only makes me appreciate and love her more. But four-, five-year-old me? All I knew back then was my mother couldn’t do my hair like my sisters’. They had that special bond with her, that quality time that I didn’t. They didn’t need strangers to take care of them. It made me feel different. I already looked different from the rest of my family, and this small thing—which wasn’t so small, really—solidified that feeling. So when Jussy asked me to do her hair, I didn’t hesitate. It’s about more than the hair and feeling pretty. It’s about that time, that attention and affirmation.”

“She misses it,” Adam murmured. “I know she misses it.”

“There’s nothing wrong with asking for help or accepting it,” she quietly said. “It’s not a weakness or a commentary on you as a parent.” A smile curved her lips. “One of the things I realized when I was older? Moe could’ve easily rejected any help for her child who was a different race than her. Could’ve ignored that she didn’t have certain knowledge when it came to aspects of my care. But she didn’t. Her reaching out and ensuring she and I had another community of friends that included people—women—who looked like me, who could talk to me about being a Black girl and later a Black woman in this world, was another display of her deep love for me. And that’s one thing that wasn’t in short supply in our home. Love. And it’s the same with Justine. There’s no need to feel guilt over what you can’t give her. Not when what you are giving her far outweighs it. Stop keeping a running tally of the losses and celebrate the wins.”

He remained silent, letting her words sink in, allowing them to fall into his heart and hopefully take root and grow.

Huffing out a short laugh, he lifted the beer to his lips again, downing a sip. “You’re too young to be so wise,” he said, lowering the bottle.

Arching an eyebrow, she snorted. “That didn’t sound condescending at all.” She paused, tilted her head, then quietly said, “Did you need that reminder of how old I am for me or for you?”

“Both of us.”

The answer broke free of him before he could censor it. And as it sat between them, it seemed to echo in the space, the meaning behind it both a revelation and a warning.

“Why do you need it? The reminder?” she pressed, and damn, why didn’t she just leave it alone?

Why didn’t he?

If he used the intelligence he’d been blessed with, he wouldn’t answer her question; he’d deflect and dodge like a pro ball player. But from the moment he’d met this woman, he’d played with his boundaries, flirted with self-preservation. She threatened them all.

And this moment wasn’t any different.

“Do you really need me to answer that?” He rubbed a hand down his beard. When she didn’t reply, he met her steady gaze without flinching. “I need that reminder so I’ll remember the real-life repercussions of making the wrong decision.”

“And I’m the wrong decision?”

She didn’t sound offended, just...curious.

“For me? For Jussy? Yes, you are.”

Unfortunately, it was debatable whether that knowledge would be enough for him to maintain his distance. To keep his hands all the way to himself.

That, she didn’t have to know.

If he hadn’t been watching her so closely, he might’ve missed the nearly imperceptible flinch. But he studied her like a final exam loomed in his future and he planned on acing the test. He almost rescinded the words, or at least softened them. In the end, though, he remained quiet. Because as blunt and maybe hurtful as he’d been, it was still the unvarnished truth.

“I’m not your wife,” she finally said, her voice low, but like a shout in his ears. “And last time I checked, Jesus went to the cross for someone else’s sins. I’m not Him or your ex-wife. I don’t want to pay for anyone’s crimes but my own.”

Damn, she had a way with words.

“Jennifer was only five years younger than me,” he said. “We met when she was finishing up her Masters at the University of Chicago and I had already been with my old architectural firm for four years. Jennifer didn’t have much of a childhood or young adulthood, for that matter. She’d grown up with a single mother who worked two jobs, and as the oldest child, much of the parenting of her two youngest siblings fell on her. And even when she left for college, she didn’t live in the dorms, but remained living at home in that role, caring for her brother and sister.”

“I can only imagine the weight of that responsibility on her at such a young age. Even though she was helping her mother, that would’ve still been a lot,” Flo murmured.

“From what she told me, Jenn loved her sister and brother—and her mom. But because she’d been pushed into a role she didn’t ask for, she became estranged from her mother. And her siblings were so used to viewing her as the gatekeeper and disciplinarian rather than just their older sister, their relationship was forever changed, too. The beginning of our relationship was—” he waved the beer bottle in front of him as if it were a wand capable of conjuring the explanation he sought “—freedom, in a way. Because by the time we met, her siblings were older, and she’d just moved into an apartment of her own. But that sense of freedom didn’t last long.”

---