Awesome.

Wednesdays were Leaf days. He fed me, he stroked my hair. He changed diapers and crooned to my baby. He brought me my weekly work for school and delivered completed packets back to teachers, as set up through Mrs. Wong with permission from both my mom and Mr. Leon. He remained the world’s best boyfriend, tolerating me, tolerating my fawning grandmother and banana-pants mother. I missed him the days I couldn’t see him, but every night before bed, he FaceTimed me to tell me he loved me and was looking forward to the weekend when we could see each other again.

Every night, I went to bed feeling cherished.

Right up until Cass woke up again demanding boob.

The two hours were nice, though. Appreciate the time you have, Ferris had said. I was trying to stick to that.

Thursdays were Jack days. Most often he came with his mom, the two of them taking turns feeding her and burping her and changing her and doing all the things one should do around a newborn. But about a month after Cass was born, Jack showed up with Nimrod Father, who stood on the front porch with his hat actually in his hand like the tired, old cliché he was. He hadn’t seen his granddaughter yet, and I was starting to think he never would. But he knocked on that door and when Mormor answered, her brow lifted, her mouth pinched in a grim line, he looked her in the eye and said, “I was upset and I took it out on everyone else and I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry. I’d like to meet my granddaughter, if that’s alright. If not today, another day maybe. Jack’s here to see the baby in either case, but...”

He didn’t make qualifiers about “if” she was his granddaughter. He didn’t try to excuse his behavior and make it anyone else’s fault. He took responsibility for his actions, he took ownership of his grandkid. It didn’t make everything better, but it helped and was, ultimately, why Mormor was even willing to ask me if I’d allow Mr. Ianelli near the baby.

One look at Jack’s tired, anxious face, and I said yes. Mr. Ianelli came into the house a humbled man. He looked at me, he nodded, he offered the same apology he’d given Mormor and then he looked at his granddaughter and he cried. Kinda like how Cass cried when she’d just unloaded in her diaper. That gnarly, nasty old man who nearly got clubbed to death by Mormor’s shoes practically sobbed, his fingers pressed to his eyes, his shoulders heaving.

It was weirdly cathartic and made me think he was human after all. I told Mom to stop calling him Nimrod Father after that.

She was so disappointed.

“Next, you’ll tell me I can’t call Santa the Chimney Shitter, either.”