“Great.”

I turned my phone toward him.

“Why was twenty-five minutes for Adele easier than twelve minutes for them?”

He looked at the screen.

Sasha leaned across her math worksheet.

“Twelve is smaller.”

Nicki looked too.

“Way smaller.”

Harold closed his eyes.

“Thank you both.”

“You’re welcome,” Nicki said.

I almost smiled.

Harold pulled out a chair.

“It’s not about the minutes.”

“Then?”

He looked at me.

“So what is it about?”

For once, he didn’t answer immediately.

Sasha erased something on her worksheet while Nicki counted on her fingers.

Finally, Harold said, “Adele appreciated it.”

I stared at him.

He rubbed his thumb along the edge of the table.

“Every morning she said thank you. She called me a lifesaver.”

“And your daughters?”

“They don’t…”

He stopped.

“They don’t what?”

He looked at Sasha.

Then Nicki.

“They don’t thank me for being their father.”

I sat back.

“No, Harold. They don’t.”

He looked almost relieved that I’d understood.

Then I finished.

“Because fatherhood isn’t customer service.”

His eyes dropped to the table.

I tapped my cast with one finger.

“I shouldn’t have had to break a bone for you to notice mornings existed.”

Nobody spoke for several seconds.

Then Harold quietly asked, “What do you want me to do?”

That question used to make me start assigning jobs.

This time, I didn’t.

“Tomorrow morning is yours.”

He looked up.

“What does that mean?”

“It means all of it.”

“Breakfast?”

“All of it.”

“Lunches?”

“All of it.”

“School bags?”

I picked up my coffee.

“You’re getting warmer.”

Sasha raised her hand.

Harold stared at her.

“What?”

“I need poster board tomorrow.”

His eyes automatically shifted toward me.

I took a sip.

“Don’t look at me.”

He turned back to Sasha.

“What kind?”

She smiled.

And for the first time since I broke my leg, Harold reached for his phone to make a note before anyone thanked him.

***

At 6:35 the next morning, he appeared beside my bed.

“Where are Nicki’s sneakers?”

I opened one eye.

“Ask Nicki.”

“She says she doesn’t know.”

“Then you’re both having an exciting morning.”

He left.

Ten minutes later, Sasha yelled that nobody had woken her up.

“You have an alarm!” Harold called.

Nicki shouted from downstairs, “We’re children!”

I pulled the blanket over my face.

Somehow, they left on time.

Barely.

That evening, Harold came home carrying groceries.

“My boss said I can start fifteen minutes later while your leg heals.”

I looked up.

“You asked?”

“Today.”

“And?”

“He said okay.”

Harold stood there holding a loaf of bread.

“I never asked before.”

“I know.”

He sat beside me.

“I didn’t realize how much you did.”

I shook my head.

“You didn’t have to know everything I did. You had to notice I was doing it.”

He nodded.

No flowers arrived.

That helped more than flowers would have.

A week later, Harold handled mornings without asking me for instructions.

One Friday, Sasha found her first draft buried beneath a stack of papers.

“I forgot about this!”

She unfolded it across the breakfast table.

Harold spotted his blue car and groaned.

“Please tell me that’s not being displayed.”

Sasha grabbed a marker.

“I have to fix it.”

Under DAD, she added:

Takes us to school.

Nicki leaned over her shoulder, took the marker, and added one more word.

NOW.

“Sasha!”

“What?” Nicki said. “It’s true.”

Harold looked at the poster.

Then at his daughters.

He held out his hand.

“It’s true.”

For a second, I thought he was going to change it.

Instead, he handed the marker back.

“Leave it.”

Sasha folded the poster.

Harold picked up both backpacks.

“Come on. We’re going to be late.”