“So do I.”
The next morning, the CEO brought him coffee.
Two minutes before his official start time.
He had arrived two minutes early.
She noticed.
“You’re early.”
“Two minutes.”
“I noticed.”
She handed him a mug.
He accepted.
“Thank you.”
She stood beside the toolbox.
No blazer today.
Still polished.
Still expensive.
But tired.
“You sleep?”
The Single Dad asked.
“Some.”
“Board?”
“Three weeks until the shareholder vote.”
“So not finished.”
“No.”
She looked toward the fence.
“Not finished.”
He understood.
For forty minutes they barely spoke.
He worked.
She answered emails nearby.
The quiet became comfortable.
Then raised voices came through the house.
Mother.
Daughter.
Not screaming.
Worse.
Controlled family anger.
The Daughter:
“I’m not stupid.”
The CEO:
“I never said you were.”
“Then stop deciding what I can handle.”
“I’m trying to protect you.”
“You’re trying to make me not notice.”
Silence.
The Single Dad kept working.
Then the Daughter:
“Is it the company?”
No answer.
“Mom.”
A long pause.
“Yes.”
The Daughter came outside several minutes later.
Eyes wet.
Face angry.
She stopped near the Single Dad.
“She told you.”
“Some.”
“She doesn’t tell anybody.”
“She needed to.”
The Daughter stared at the fence.
“She told a man she’s known two days.”
The Single Dad put down his drill.
“She didn’t tell me because I’m special.”
“Then why?”
“Because I’m leaving.”
The Daughter frowned.
“I’m not part of her world.”
“I don’t know the board.”
“I don’t know her friends.”
“Sometimes strangers are easier.”
The Daughter looked toward the kitchen.
“She thought I couldn’t handle it.”
“She thought she was protecting you.”
“I don’t want protection.”
“I want real.”
The Single Dad nodded.
“I know.”
The Daughter looked at him.
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I do.”
“How?”
He leaned against the fence.
“Sometimes adults try to carry everything themselves.”
“They think if they hand any of it to their kids, they failed.”
“That doesn’t mean they think the kid is weak.”
“It means they don’t know how to admit they are.”