“I don’t read much of the classics,” I confess as we roam the library, “But I’m big on ethnobotany, food science, and herbology. It’s all part of my culinary explorations and natural remedies for the girls.”

Kerry nods appreciatively. “That’s fascinating. You’ll have to read and interpret some of your favorite books one day.” She says, genuinely intrigued. “Would you mind if I spend time in here? When I have breaks, of course. I’d love to sit and read while watching the sun rise and set. It’s the most beautiful feeling in the world, being surrounded by warmth and books.”

After studying her for a second, I reply, “Of course. You have full access to everything in my home.”

I desperately want to say everyone, too, but I control myself, barely.

While continuing the tour, I feel a knot of apprehension grow in my stomach. I’ve never introduced a teacher to my daughters quite like this, never with a personal interest involved.

But before we enter, Kerry’s phone rings. Her expression shifts instantly, the light dimming in her eyes. She stares at her screen, frozen for a moment, and I catch a glimpse of the caller ID: Unknown.

“I’m sorry, it’s my ex.” She says. “He’s been calling non-stop since Saturday night. I promise to keep my phone on silent.”

A sharp pang of jealousy shoots through me. Is he trying to rekindle their old flame? Are they still involved? Or is he just another possessive asshole who can’t let go? The distressed look on her face stirs a deep unease in me, awakening a protective instinct. I don’t like seeing her like this. I don’t like that his shadow still lingers over her, that it still affects her though they’re no longer together.

Pushing aside my swirling thoughts, I reach for the door handle to my daughter Ariel’s room with a hesitant hand. I’m hit by a wave of nerves—not just for me, but for what this introduction could mean for my girls, especially Ari, who’s already dealing with so much, a budding pre-teen on the verge of entering middle school in just a few years. She’s so full of life, yet her challenges are a constant reminder of the fragility of happiness in such a cold, cruel world. She needs positivity, reinforcement, and support. She needs someone who sees her as the bright, powerful girl she is, not someone defined by her disability.

I take a deep breath and push the door open, and Ariel looks up.

She’s momentarily flustered when she notices Kerry. “Dad, I’m not ready!” She screams, quickly adjusting her prosthetic leg. Her cheeks flush with insecurity and embarrassment.