“It’s called sunlight, and let me introduce you to fresh air,” he said, opening the window. A faint smell lingered, and he’d bet there was food or a wet swimsuit left in a backpack somewhere.

She shot him a look only a nine-year-old going on forty could deliver. “The UV rating today is an eight. Do you know how dangerous that is?”

“So is vitamin D deficiency. Wear sunscreen and a hat,” he said, tossing her a baseball cap that said STEM on it. “Come on, you have to get ready for soccer.”

“Can I just finish this code?” She folded her hands in a pleading motion, and he almost caved. Being a single dad, he was always struggling to find that balance between being a parent and allowing her independence. The first year after Kelly died had been the hardest. He found himself giving in to everything and anything Marissa wanted to compensate for her tragic loss, but he quickly realized that setting boundaries was in the little girl’s best interests. Or at least that was what all the parenting books Carmen kept giving him said.

“No.”

“Dad! It’s important.”

“So is movement and fun and seeing friends.”

“I hate soccer,” she said with a pout, but she reached under a pile of clothing—dirty or clean or a mix of both, he wasn’t sure—and retrieved her soccer cleats.

“It’s more fun when you actually try.”

Connecting with her had never been this difficult before. It didn’t seem that long ago when they had picnics in the backyard with her dolls or when pushing her on the swing was met with squeals of delight as she swung higher. Now she was into science and math and all this computer stuff he just did not get. He’d wrongfully assumed he’d have at least a few more easy years before Marissa’s teenage hormones made things challenging. After all, what did he know about teenage girls? If every discussion now was a challenge or a negotiation, what would it be like when he had an actual teenager to deal with?

She sulked as she tied the laces of her cleats and he flicked through the pile of clothes for her soccer jersey. Number 7. His old number when he’d played professionally. Now he wore whatever number the beer leagues gave out.

“Hey, um…did you give that camp any more thought?” she asked, trying to sound casual, but he heard the eagerness in her voice.

Marissa had been asking about the STEM summer camp since first learning about the science and technology program during spring break, when the school had hosted a free week-long session.

But that had been different. This two-week sleepaway camp cost $1,500 and was three hours away: $1,000 more and not local like the Girl Guides camp she would be attending in Blue Moon Bay next month.