Chapter 3 Ant
THREE
ANT
I shut down my computer and push my chair back, stretching until my spine gives a satisfying crack. My brain’s fried, my coffee’s gone cold, and I’ve reread the same email three times without absorbing a single word of it. It's not the workload—it’s light, to ease me back in—but my focus is shot.
All I’ve been thinking about today is Henry.
His first full day at a new school. New town. New everything. And I just sent him off with a smile and a packed lunch like that was enough.
I rub the back of my neck and sigh.
“Big first Monday?”
I glance up to see Leanne from marketing lingering by my desk, keys in one hand, reusable coffee cup in the other. She’s been nothing but friendly since I walked in last Thursday, and I’m grateful for it. Her energy is a bit much before my second coffee, but she means well.
“Yeah,” I say. “Bit of a learning curve getting back into the swing of things.”
“You looked like you were solving a murder over that spreadsheet.”
I snort. “Don’t tempt me. I prefer the murders in my TV shows.”
She grins. “Hey, we’re heading to the pub if you’re keen? Just a couple of us from this floor.”
“Thanks,” I say, meaning it, “but I’ve got school pick-up. Kid duties.”
“No worries,” she says, then leans in conspiratorially. “We’ll be celebrating a little harder Friday. Just sayin’.”
I nod, making a mental note to not immediately decline next time. Socialising might actually help the transition. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
When she heads off, I grab my keys and sling my bag over my shoulder. The walk to the car’s short and hot—the late-January sun still strong this time of day—and I crank the air-con the moment I’m in.
No missed calls. No emails from the school. I take that as a win. If there’d been an issue, I’d have heard by now. Right?
Still, I can’t stop the worry gnawing at me. Henry’s tough, but even the best kids can wobble when everything around them changes. New rules, new faces, new lunch tables to navigate. I just want him to feel okay. Like he belongs.
The school’s only ten minutes away, tucked behind a leafy stretch of road where the houses are all wide-verandahed and sun-bleached.
By the time I park and join the slow-moving parade of parents waiting outside the gates, the realisation hits me again: I’m the only dad here.
The rest are mums—chattering in pairs, some in office wear, some in activewear, a few corralling toddlers on hips.
I shift awkwardly against the fence, holding my spot, suddenly aware of how out of place I look.
It’s nothing new. I’ve been the only dad at enough school events, parent-teacher nights, and weekend birthday parties to have grown a thick skin about it.
But it still feels weird sometimes, like I missed a memo.
Then—like some sort of casual, sun-kissed mirage—he appears.
Eli.
He’s coming from the far side of the oval, walking with that relaxed, unhurried pace, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, a faint smear of dirt on one arm like he’s been elbow-deep in mulch. I spot the rake in his hand and huff a laugh.
Bloody perfect timing.
He catches my eye, nods once, and veers towards me like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Just like that, I’m no longer the lone man loitering like a misplaced tradesman. I don’t know if he means to save me, but I appreciate the hell out of it all the same.
“Made it through the first day,” he says.
“Barely,” I reply. “I think my brain’s already put in a formal complaint.”
“Was it the work or the worrying about your kid?”
“Bit of both,” I admit. “Mostly the second. I haven’t heard anything, which I’m assuming is good.”
“No news is usually good news,” he says, shifting the rake to his other hand. “They’re pretty quick to call if something goes sideways.”
“I keep refreshing my inbox like it’s going to spontaneously update with a teacher’s commentary.”
He grins. “They’ve probably got their hands full with kids learning how to use glue sticks again.”
“Henry’s a glue stick veteran, I’ll have you know.”
“Sounds like he’ll be top of the class, then.”
We stand there for a beat, the sun slipping lower behind the trees, heat radiating up from the pavement in lazy waves.
“I meant to ask,” I say, glancing at the rake, “are you back on the bike yet? Or is it still in a state of emergency repairs?”
His mouth twitches. “Ah. The bike.”
“Oh shit,” I say, straightening. “Was it damaged? Please tell me it’s not in pieces somewhere because of my son’s flailing knee-ups.”
He laughs—a proper, amused laugh this time—and waves me off. “Relax. The bike’s fine. I’ve got it parked in the shed out the back. Little scuff on the frame, but nothing tragic.”
“Okay, good. Because I’ve got dad guilt stacked to the ceiling already.”
He glances sideways at me just long enough to catch my expression. “You’re too hard on yourself.”
“Yeah, well.” I shrug. “It comes with the job.”
Before either of us can say more, the school bell rings—sharp and loud—and the gates buzz open. There’s a sudden movement of small bodies and big backpacks, kids pouring out in every direction, voices rising like a swarm of cockatoos.
A blur of pink and blonde comes flying out of the crowd, and before I can blink, she launches herself at Eli.
“Uncle Eli!” she squeals, wrapping both arms around his leg. “We did drawing and made paper dogs and I got to use the glitter and Mrs Keating said mine was the most colourful but Liam said it looked like vomit but I don’t care because mine had googly eyes—”
“Whoa, slow down.” Eli crouches, grinning, and gently peels her off him. “Take a breath, Ava. I need pauses between sentences if I’m going to understand this epic saga.”
She beams up at him, completely unbothered, and starts talking again immediately. Something about rainbow pencils and a girl named Isla who has a talking lunchbox.
I step back slightly, not wanting to intrude, but I can’t help watching the way Eli listens to her. Properly listens. Not with one ear, not with the distracted nod of someone waiting to speak—but with his whole attention.
It’s sweet. Natural. And more than a little attractive.
Not that I should be thinking about that.
A second later, another kid—older, wiry, definitely family by the look of him—appears with a bored expression and a cricket bat poking out of his backpack. Eli throws him a high five without breaking the conversation with Ava, and the boy gives a small, reluctant grin.
“I take it you’ve got the favourite uncle status locked in?” I ask when the kids move off towards the grass to dump their bags.
“Only because I bring snacks,” Eli says, straightening again. “And because I say yes more than their mum does.”
“You’re doing after-school care duty?”
“Three days a week. Mel—my sister—drops them off, and I take them home till she finishes work.”
“That’s decent of you.”
He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Family’s family.”
I nod, impressed. Not everyone would rearrange their life for that kind of commitment. But he clearly has. No fanfare. Just quiet steadiness.
Henry appears then, finally, face flushed but smiling, hair sticking up like he’s been in a wind tunnel. His backpack’s half open, but he looks happy. Settled. Relief floods through me like a tidal wave.
“Hey, mate,” I call, managing to catch myself before calling him kiddo. “How was it?”
“Pretty good,” he says, trying to sound casual but giving himself away with the grin. “I made a friend.”
“That so? Who?”
He points towards the boy with the cricket bat sticking out of his backpack—Eli’s nephew. The kid’s already looking over, curious.
“That’s Noah,” Eli says, glancing between us. “Year 5.”
Henry gives a small, awkward wave before trotting over. Noah nods back, and within seconds, they’ve moved to the strip of concrete near the fence, producing a slightly scuffed handball from Noah’s bag and starting up a game like they’ve known each other for years.
There’s a kind of magic in being ten years old that I’m pretty envious of. No overthinking, no slow build-up—just mates.
My shoulders loosen. “Day one and we’re already ahead of schedule.”
Eli smiles. “Told you. You’ve got a good kid.”
Before I can thank him, Henry calls over his shoulder mid-bounce, “Dad! Can Noah come over and play Nintendo?”
“Not tonight, mate,” I say automatically. “School night.”
Henry groans in theatrical protest, but Eli catches my eye, a hint of amusement there.
“Perhaps at the end of the week?” he says, easy and unpushy.
“Yeah,” I say. “We could make that work.”
Ava chooses that moment to tug on Eli’s sleeve, launching into a breathless monologue about jelly snakes and something called “cosmic yoga.” Whatever I was about to add gets swept away in the noise, and I just stand there for a moment, watching him crouch slightly so he can hear her better.
When Henry finally drags himself away from the handball court, we start towards the car. I glance back once.
Eli’s still standing there, one hand resting lightly on Ava’s shoulder, the bright midafternoon sun behind him like a halo.
And that little lift in his brow?
It tells me maybe he’s watching me. Just for a second. And yeah… maybe I’m watching him right back.