FINAL NOTIFICATION: WITHDRAWAL/FAIL DEADLINE

My hand freezes, mid-click. The message is from the night school where Dad’s taking his classes. I know I shouldn’t read his message, but I can’t stop myself.

Dear Student:

This notice is to inform you that you have reached the maximum allowed number of absences for the following course: ADT A296. Additional absences and/or the non-submission of pending missed coursework will result in a grade of F/Fail unless extenuating circumstances are immediately identified and discussed with your academic adviser and/or program director. Please contact your adviser immediately to address this matter.

Sincerely,

Department of Academic Affairs

I reread it about ten times, trying to make it mean something other than what it does. Then I close out the page, feeling gut-punched. If Dad hasn’t been going to class, then what has he been doing? Why hasn’t he been going to class?

Dad going back to school was something Mom always wanted him to do. School was tough for him the first time around, and when he decided to be a mechanic, he did it through an apprenticeship program that paid for all his certifications and training. Mom’s point was that if he actually went through a program and got a two-year degree, then he could have way more options, like teaching in a program himself one day.

Your body won’t hold up forever, I remember her telling Dad more than once, especially on days when he’d come home with a tweaked back or a wrenched shoulder from a heavy job or an accident at work. Getting a plan B on deck would give this family a few more options.

Like so many things, Mom was the driving force behind a big idea, but Dad jumped on board, signing up for two night classes a semester. Mom picked up more work hours to make ends meet and helped with papers when he had to write them … until the accident.

After that, everything got harder. Dad dropped down to one class a semester and worked full-time on top of that. I took on more responsibility at home to help out. We’ve done okay.

Until now, I guess. I turn off the laptop and stare at the black screen, trying to understand why he would have just stopped going to class. Without telling me.

More and more, it feels like Dad’s second-guessing me. Or, when he does remember what I can do and how much fun we used to have doing everything together, suddenly catching himself and cutting it all back off. Like how he took me to the skate park but still won’t let me actually get up on our own ramp to practice. Or how the key to the shop still hasn’t reappeared on its hook by the door. Is he keeping the door locked on purpose? To keep me from … what? Bonking myself on the head with a lug wrench? Sending myself up one of the hydraulic lifts?

I’m not a little kid, dang it.