Chapter 2
Grayson
By the time Penelope’s teacher says the words “broke up family,” my jaw already hurts from clenching.
“I just wanted to flag it,” Ms. Jenson says, her hands folded in front of herself. “She’s been quieter this week, a little more clingy at drop-off. And when we did feelings circle yesterday, she said she felt sad because her family is ‘broke up.’”
The phrase hits like a helmet-to-helmet collision. No padding. No gear. No time to brace.
“She said it like that?” I ask, voice rough. “Broke up?”
Ms. Jenson winces. “Kids repeat what they hear.”
Right.
I don’t need a playbook to know where she heard that.
My ex-wife’s voice plays in my head, sharp as glass: This is what happens when families break up, Grayson.
“I… I mean, she’s okay otherwise, right?” I search the room for my kid like she might suddenly appear and prove this conversation unnecessary.
But the classroom behind Ms. Jenson is chaotic now—tiny tables, tiny chairs, paper suns taped to windows, children running around like they’ve never had the chance to before, just because it’s the morning and they somehow don’t need coffee.
“She’s still participating,” Ms. Jenson says. “Still playing. It’s just a shift. I thought you’d want to know.” She hesitates. “Is everything okay at home?”
There it is.
The question I’ve been bracing for since the day I signed the divorce papers and kicked Halsey out of the house eight months ago.
Is everything okay at home?
I drag a hand over the back of my neck. The skin there is tight, hot.
“We’re… still adjusting,” I say. “There’s been some schedule changes with her mom lately, so I guess Pen’s feeling it more. And the nanny’s been in and out. But she’s—I mean, she’s safe. She’s loved.”
“I can tell she’s loved,” Ms. Jenson says quickly. “She talks about you all the time. Her daddy this, her daddy that, Sparkks Sports, the big building with your name on it.” She softens a little. “She’s proud of you.”
Great. At least someone is.
“She also said she misses when you and her mommy ‘all lived together,’” Ms. Jenson adds gently. “Sometimes kids that age think it’s their fault. It might help to reassure her it’s not.”
I swallow, the lump in my throat hard enough to choke on. “Yeah. Yeah, okay, I’ll talk to her.”
“Good.” Ms. Jenson gives me a small, earnest smile. “You’re doing a good job, Mr. Sparkks. Really. And it’s not like this is unique; I’ve seen hundreds of kids go through this. Don’t worry too much.”
I nod, but it bounces right off.
A dad doing a good job doesn’t have to have this conversation in a fluorescent-lit classroom. A dad doing a good job doesn’t show up ten minutes late to preschool drop-off with a four-year-old who fell asleep in the car because she was up too late waiting for a mother who never showed.
“Thank you,” I manage.
In the hallway, the finger-paint on the walls blurs—snowmen, crooked houses, stick figure families that actually have two adults in them.
I catch a glimpse of Penelope through the window of the next room, sitting crisscross on the rug, curls pinned into two buns I’ve mastered, holding her stuffed unicorn in the crook of one arm.
She laughs at something another little girl says, her whole face lighting up.
It should make me feel better.
Instead, it makes my chest ache.
By the time I’m back in the car, my mood’s circling the drain.
The dashboard clock glares eight-twenty-seven at me like an accusation.
I was supposed to be at the office at eight.
I was supposed to have time to skim the revised NFL partnership proposal before the ten o’clock call.
I was supposed to drop Penelope off and talk about picture day on Thursday, or the stuffed animal sleepover the school is doing on Friday — not whether my kid is quietly falling apart while I’m dashing between meetings.
My phone buzzes in the cupholder.
Halsey. Of course.
I let it ring four times before I hit accept and put her on speaker.
“What did you say to her?” is the first thing out of her mouth. No, hello. No, how is she?
“Good morning to you, too,” I say, starting the car. “What did I say to who?”
“Our daughter,” she snaps. “About last night. Don’t play dumb, Gray. You probably told her I blew her off.”
My grip tightens on the steering wheel.
It baffles me that she thinks I’d say something that devastating to our kid.
“She asked if you were still coming. I told her you got held up and that it wasn’t her fault. I covered for you.”
“Don’t know if I believe that,” Halsey huffs. “Last time she came over she wasn’t herself with me. You’re probably filling her head with—”
“If she’s acting off with you, it’s probably because she keeps falling asleep crying in my lap because her mom doesn’t show up,” I say flatly. “She woke up this morning and asked if she’d done something wrong. I spent twenty minutes convincing her she hadn’t.”
“God, you always make everything so dramatic,” she bites out. “You know how badly it reflects on me if she starts saying shit like ’Mommy doesn’t want me’? Do you have any idea what that does to my relationship with her?”
“I’m very aware of what this does to her,” I say, jaw ticking. “You didn’t text. You didn’t call. You just… didn’t come. That’s twice now in the last month. What exactly did you want me to say when she asked where you were?”
A sharp exhale through her nose. “I told you something came up.”
“You texted me at eleven-thirty after she finally cried herself to sleep,” I remind her. “She doesn’t see the excuses. She just sees that you weren’t there, and I have to come up with something on the spot so she doesn’t think her mother is abandoning her.”
“Oh, that’s rich, coming from you,” she snaps. “Mr. ‘Sorry, sweetheart, Daddy’s got a meeting.’ Maybe if you’d stop trying to be the hero—”
“I’m trying to be her parent, Halsey,” I cut in. “One of us has to show up.”
“You’re acting like I’m actively damaging her—”
“Her teacher stopped me today. Said she’s been quieter. Clingier. She said Pen’s been telling the class her family is ‘broke up.’ Wonder where she got that language.”
Halsey scoffs. “You expect me not to tell my friends my marriage broke up? She listens, Grayson. Kids aren’t stupid.”
“I know she listens.” I grip the steering wheel harder. “That’s why we’re supposed to be careful with what she hears.”
“Don’t you dare put this on me,” she says, voice rising. “You’re the one who wanted out, remember? You walked. It’s not my fault she sees me actively grieving our marriage and then gets confused when you don’t.”
I close my eyes briefly at the red light.
I walked. Yes. Because Halsey turned into the worst person in the world the second we got married, and she was already pregnant. Because she openly told me that she only agreed to marry me because I was secure, because I had money, because I could help get her to places she wanted to go.
And I stayed three years longer than I should have because I didn’t want my daughter to be a split-household kid. We both made choices.
“I’m not doing this right now,” I mutter, light turning green. “I have to get to work.”
“Of course you do,” she huffs. “Work first, as always. Just… fix whatever’s going on with her.”
There’s a bitter laugh bubbling up that I swallow down. I always have to fucking fix it. “Whatever.”
“I’d say thanks, but you don’t want to hear it.” A beat. “Tell her I love her.”
“You could tell her yourself if you actually showed up on your nights.” The words slip out before I can stop them.
Silence crackles over the line.
“I’ll see her Sunday,” she says, and then she hangs up.
This day can't get any worse.