Where I Belong (Single Dads of Meadowbrook #1)

CHAPTER 1

Jason

B eing a good father is more than providing shelter, food, and education. It’s more than cheering from the sidelines at soccer games or applauding at dance recitals. As I navigate my Honda Pilot through Manhattan, the lingering question of true fatherhood shadows every turn of the wheel through the hustle and bustle.

“I had it first.”

“Did not!”

“Did!” My eight-year-old twin boys squabble, undoubtedly over something trivial. I savor their bickering and my daughter’s outspoken complaints, a better soundtrack than the radio for a little over an hour-long journey from Meadowbrook.

“Why can’t we just go to the neighborhood school?” Frustrated, eleven-year-old Eden voices a question she’s posed one too many times.

“Daddy wants us to go to good schools.” Felix sounds older than his years. “If I’m going to be a gamer, a small school will not do it.”

“And I get to fly airplanes.” Atticus’s fist pump flashes in the rearview mirror. “Oh, and the city has the best soccer teams!”

A smile tugs at my mouth, though the truth is more complex than good education or sports programs. When we needed a new start four years ago, moving to Meadowbrook seemed like the right decision despite the commute.

“I’m sure there’s a soccer team in Meadowbrook if we ever stayed home longer than an hour.” Eden huffs. Poor girl, longing for something simpler, something closer to the childhood she must envision.

“I work here,” I explain again. “It’s nice to have you guys close in case of emergencies, and... it’s easier for Grandma to pick you up from school.”

I inch forward through slow traffic. A siren wails, horns honk, and the city thrums. Contentment relaxes me as I take in New York—the city rife with possibilities for business owners like me and jobs for anyone pursuing their dreams.

When I stop at the red light, I check the kids. They’re the reason surrender isn’t in my vocabulary.

Atticus leans closer to the window and tips his face up, probably hoping to sight airplanes, and Felix, in the middle seat, talks about including his brother’s airplanes in the video game he intends to design someday. Although they are identical with similar facial structure and brown hair and blue eyes like me, I can tell them apart. Atticus has an athletic build, while Felix is leaner.

Eden has folded her arms, her defiance as tangible as her pout. She gazes out her window. Her blonde locks she inherited from her mother, but like her brothers, she has my blue eyes.

Lately, her spirit has been more akin to that of a moody teen. Good thing she’s bound by the school’s uniform policy. Otherwise, each morning would present a new battleground over her attire.

The boys squabble again. The rearview mirror frames their small hands grappling over a squishy ball.

“Boys, drop the toy.” They need to get into school mode. “And I don’t want to get any reports about you two attempting to change passwords on the teacher’s computer.”

“We only changed the screen background to airplanes,” Atticus says. “But Felix thinks she might like cars better.”

“We’ll change it to race cars next time.”

“There won’t be a next time,” I warn, catching Felix’s thoughtful frown in the mirror.

“Daddy, you have a great idea. Changing a password sounds—”

“No!” My voice rises in my struggle not to laugh. “How about you rehash your presentation?” The light turns green, and I make a slow left turn.

“We’ve got it, Daddy!” Atticus exclaims. I don’t have to look to know his wide smile must be in place. “‘Four scores and seven years ago’...”

“‘Our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation,’” Felix chimes in.

“Do we have to hear the whole poem again?” Eden groans. But the boys dismiss her.

“You and Mimi will be proud of us tomorrow,” Felix adds once they finish.

“I’m always proud of you guys.” Their enthusiasm expands in my heart. “Looking forward to hearing your presentation tomorrow.”

After another left turn, the school comes into view with ivy creeping up its walls. I slow to join the line of cars in front of the old brick building. Parents and chauffeurs alike drive close to the drop-off by the gym entrance. All the kids are dressed in the same white button-down shirts tucked into navy bottoms.

As we stop at the curb, a shift in Eden’s demeanor to sullen sends ripples of concern through me. This habit, budding over the past six months, gives a signal of her inner turmoil. Keeping the car idling, I stretch my right hand back to clasp her smaller one, offering a squeeze of support. “Is everything okay, sweetheart?”

Her reflection in the rearview mirror gives a nod. But her gaze avoids mine, which speaks volumes. “I have a math test.”

“You’ll ace it. Remember our review session last night?” Will my attempts ever be enough to ease her anxieties? Her fear has no real foundation. Yet it seems to dig roots deeper than the surface worries. She’s still struggling from her mother’s absence in our lives.

The man in the yellow vest ushers us forward. Having held up the car line, I ease forward and suppress the desire to step out and wrap my children in a parting embrace.

“Bye, Daddy,” the boys’ voices overlap.

“Love you.” I stretch over my seat back to offer a smile.

They’re already stepping out and closing the door. Their backpacks with cartoon characters swing with youthful abandon.

Eden sighs and rolls her eyes. If only she could communicate whatever is behind her frustration, then perhaps I could help her. “Can I skip dance practice today?”

“But you love dance.” I speak over the traffic guide’s whistle—a reminder of the queue forming behind us, a reminder I choose to ignore. “Is everything okay?”

“I’m fine.” She sounds indifferent before she draws out a breath and swings open the door to step out.

“Love you.” My voice rises over the chatter of kids’ voices, and Eden responds with an “I love you” as she slams the door.

The kids blend into the sea of uniforms, my boys already lost from sight, but I glimpse Eden merging with the stream. Lately, the gap between us seems to widen with unspoken words and missed opportunities. Driven by another urgent whistle, I pull away, a weight on my chest. My kids are growing up so fast, each stage presenting new challenges with their evolving needs and desires. I might pull off parenting the boys, but I’m not so sure about Eden.

Is it ever enough to be the best dad for them? And what does it truly mean to be a good father? I’m thirty-seven, and I’ve grappled with this question since I was four. With only my mom’s resilient spirit as a guide after my dad vanished from our lives, the last thing I want is to mirror his absence.

Shortly later, I park in my alternate designated spot alongside Family Sphere Tower. I’ll park in the garage after this network meeting. I’m normally punctual, but today’s agenda leaves me minimal time to review the three candidates our human resources team vetted as possibles for a position on our new reality family show. Now, my business partner and I must select one of them today.

My phone rings in my coat pocket as I step out of the car. Mom’s contact flashes on the screen.

Besides the kids’ school, hers is the only call I can’t ignore. I press the device to my ear and close the door. The crisp March breeze plays through my suit as I cross the parking lot. People filter in and out of the eleven-story glassed-in structure to merge with the sparse crowd on the sidewalk.

“Jay.” Mom’s voice soothes as always. Though she named me Jason, she only uses my given name to emphasize a point, then I’ll be Jason Carson Sterling.

“Morning, Mom.”

“I’m on my way to pick up Eden from school.”

“Why? What happened?” My grip on my phone tightens. “I just dropped them off.”

“The school called. She threw up.” Her tone carries the same worry now clenching my stomach.

The bustle blurs. “Why didn’t she say something earlier?” I pause at the entrance. The automatic doors slide open in invitation, but I’m rooted to the spot. “I just don’t get it.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself. She’s eleven. Much is going on in her mind, plus all those unanswered questions about her mother.”

Acknowledging the truth doesn’t ease my twisting guts. As for the kids’ mother, that’s not a topic I bring up to the kids.

How unsettling that my daughter can’t even tell me when she’s sick. Perhaps her asking to skip dance meant she was sick?

“Perhaps it’s her age.” I retreat a step to allow a woman to pass, then do a double take. Dressed in a tailored navy pantsuit, a beverage in one hand and a cream handbag in the other, she strides with attention-grabbing confidence. Glossy dark hair cascades over her shoulders, the perfect frame for delicate features in flawless olive skin. Our gazes lock, and a flicker of something unspoken ignites. I’m not sure why I’m flabbergasted, but I force the intrigue away as my mother’s voice reels me back.

I clear my throat, and my fingers find the tension at the back of my neck. The piled-up tasks at work pale in comparison to my daughter’s well-being. “I’ll try to leave early today.”

“She’ll be okay.” As a retired ER nurse, Mom doesn’t gloss over the practicalities. “Focus on your workday. The boys still need to be in school for the rest of the day. I’ll call if you need to step in.”

Today, of all days, when my presence at the network is nonnegotiable, I’m thankful for my mother’s support. “Keep me updated.”

“Of course, sweetheart.”

“Thanks, Mom.” What would I do without her? Life, especially when juggling single parenthood and a CEO’s responsibilities, seldom offers respite. I thrust the phone into my suit pocket and push through the glass doors, a facade of composure in place. But beneath that lurks the fact that Eden didn’t feel comfortable sharing her discomfort with me. Am I falling short?

My mother has been my unwavering support, raising me single-handedly as she worked full-time. Now retired, she still volunteers at the hospital. Nonetheless, she prioritizes taking care of my children. Despite my attempts to find a reliable nanny, no one has matched her standard of care. She deserves a break, but the right help seems out of reach.

Entering the lobby, I exchange a customary nod with the security guard. And Sally, usually the beacon of morning cheer, is preoccupied with people at the reception desk. I rush past to catch the elevator before it closes. I’m pushing the button to close the doors when heels click against tile. I quickly press a different button to keep the doors open.

The woman in the navy suit enters, a guest lanyard around her neck and a disposable cup still in hand. Our eyes lock again, and a flutter spirals in my stomach once more.

Maybe I’m staring and I’m the reason her foot twists as she steps onto the granite. When I reach to steady her, I collide with her cup. It tumbles to the floor, brown liquid splashing onto my shirt.

“Ugh...” The heat from the spill seeps close to my skin. Almost ignoring the discomfort, I pick up her cup. Funnily enough, none of it splashed on her. The doors close, and we ride up.

“I’m so sorry.” Her shaky hands rummage for something in her handbag. A tissue, I realize. What she needs is to take the cup from me, but she doesn’t.

I bite my lip to contain my impatience. I’ll snap should I speak.

It wasn’t her fault. Though if she hadn’t been carrying coffee, this incident could’ve been avoided.

“If I get the mop, I can—”

“We have a cleaner for that.” Without looking at her, I stiffen my jaw. My daughter is sick, and I’m late. I have no patience for this.

The elevator deposits us onto the executive level, and the woman mumbles an apology and adds something about being on the wrong floor. When she remains in the elevator to head back down, I can’t shake the suspicion she’s one of the three candidates we’re interviewing this morning.

If she’s this clumsy, she’s not what our network needs.