Rent-a-Dad

A quietly devastating story about a man praised for being the perfect father—just not to his own children.

Everyone said he had a gift with kids. But the ones who needed him most hadn’t called in years.

Chapter 1: Five Stars

The parallel parking lesson was going perfectly. Rachel gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles while I guided her through the reference points—when to turn, when to straighten, when to trust the process even when it felt wrong.

"You're doing great," I said as her Honda Civic slid smoothly into the space between two cars. "See? Just like we practiced."

Rachel's face lit up with the pure joy of mastering something that had seemed impossible twenty minutes earlier. "I did it! I actually did it!"

This was why I loved the work. The moment when someone realized they were capable of more than they'd believed. The transformation from anxiety to confidence. The way a stranger's face could shift from worry to wonder in the span of a single success.

"You did all the work," I said, but Rachel was already pulling out her phone.

"I'm giving you five stars. This was exactly what I needed."

As I walked back to my car, my phone buzzed with the notification. Five stars. Again. The review appeared instantly: "Miles was incredible today. Patient, kind, really listened to what I needed. You can tell he's a real dad—just has that natural instinct for helping people succeed. His children are so lucky to have him."

I sat in my car reading those words until they blurred. His children are so lucky to have him.

The dashboard clock read 3:47 PM. Thursday afternoon. Somewhere across town, Willa was getting out of school, probably complaining to friends about homework or teachers or the thousand small dramas that filled a sixteen-year-old's world. Jack was in eighth grade now, probably more interested in video games than conversation.

I drove home through familiar streets, my phone buzzing with new requests. By the time I reached my studio apartment, three different people wanted to hire me for weekend projects. I accepted all three before getting out of my car.

The apartment reflected the same careful minimalism as my professional approach. Everything in its place, nothing extraneous. Laptop open to the Rent-a-Dad dashboard, displaying my stats like a scorecard for something important: 127 completed jobs, 5.0 average rating, Super Dad status for eight consecutive months.

Number one in the metro area.

On my nightstand sat a small framed photograph—the only family picture visible in the apartment. Me with Willa and Jack at a beach vacation, everyone squinting into the sun and smiling. Willa was maybe thirteen in the photo, Jack around ten. Both still young enough to think their father was capable of fixing anything.

The photo was several years old, from before everything changed.

Next to it, almost hidden behind a lamp, was a small blue toothbrush that had been sitting in my bathroom holder for so long I'd stopped noticing it. In my dresser, buried under carefully folded clothes, was a book about dinosaurs I'd bought years ago and never given away.

These objects felt like artifacts from someone else's life, evidence of relationships that existed in a parallel universe where I'd made different choices.

My phone buzzed with another review, this one from yesterday's client: "Miles has such a natural way with kids. His own children must adore him."

I closed the app and tried to focus on anything else. Tomorrow I'd help Elena with her college essays, provide patient guidance that had earned me countless five-star reviews. I'd be exactly what she needed me to be, for exactly as long as she needed me to be it.

But lying in the darkness of my studio apartment, surrounded by the carefully curated emptiness of a life built around temporary connections, the words followed me toward sleep: His children are so lucky to have him.

That night, I went to bed with a feeling I couldn't quite name—like I was preparing for a performance I'd never be asked to give.

Chapter 2: The Professional

Saturday mornings had developed a rhythm over the past eight months. Coffee, shower, check the dashboard. Review overnight requests, plan the day's schedule, prepare for whatever combination of parallel parking and emotional support awaited.

This morning brought an unusual booking. Jessica needed "general dad presence while I organize my closet and maybe talk through some stuff." Not the typical request—no specific skill required, no clear deliverable. Just presence.

I typed back: "Looking forward to helping. I'll be there at 5:00 sharp with coffee and moral support."

Warm but professional. Available but not overwhelming. Everything a temporary father should be.

I spent the drive preparing—mental inventory of encouragement strategies, ways to make overwhelming tasks feel manageable. Jessica had asked to meet at a Target parking lot, which was busy with weekend shoppers, families loading groceries and arguing about dinner plans.

Jessica waved from near the entrance—early thirties, coffee-stained shirt and keys already in her other hand. We walked to her car together, and I followed her to her nearby apartment complex. As we climbed the stairs to her unit, she apologized for the unusual request.

"Sometimes the hardest part of any job is just having someone there who believes you can do it," I told her.

"That's exactly it. I've been putting this off for months because it feels so overwhelming."

Her bedroom closet revealed the kind of organizational challenge that could paralyze anyone. Clothes draped over chairs, shoes scattered across the floor, storage boxes stacked precariously. "Every piece of clothing has some memory attached," she said. "I just freeze up when I try to decide what to keep."

"What if we start with things you haven't worn in the past year?"

"But what if I need them again?"

"What if you don't? And what if making space for new things is more important than keeping everything from the past?"

The question hung in the air between us. Jessica looked at me with the kind of recognition that suggested my words had reached deeper than intended.

We worked for two hours, sorting through layers of accumulated life. I held items while Jessica considered them, offered perspective without being pushy, treated each choice with appropriate gravity. This was what I was good at—being present without being overwhelming, asking questions that helped people think rather than providing answers they hadn't asked for.

"You're really good at this," Jessica said as we filled the third donation bag. "Do you have kids? You must be an amazing father."

The question hit with familiar complexity. A knot formed in my stomach, the same sensation I felt every time a client made assumptions about my personal life based on my professional competence.

"I try to be good at what I do," I said carefully.

"That's not really an answer." Jessica's smile was gentle but persistent. "Come on, do you have little ones who benefit from all this patience?"

"They're older now. They've got their own lives."

True, in a way that felt both honest and completely misleading. Jessica nodded with understanding—of course an experienced dad would be humble about his children's independence.

The conversation moved on, but the question lingered. Jessica had seen something in my approach, recognized qualities that felt natural rather than learned. She wasn't wrong—I was good with people, patient with their struggles, genuinely interested in helping them succeed.

But the irony was sharp enough to cut. Here I was, helping a stranger organize her closet with infinite patience, while my own children were somewhere else entirely, living lives I knew almost nothing about.

When we finished, Jessica's bedroom looked transformed. Clothes hung in organized sections, shoes lined up neatly, empty space that felt full of possibility.

"This feels amazing," she said. "I haven't been able to get dressed without feeling overwhelmed in months."

"You did all the work. I just provided moral support."

"The best kind of dad work. Seriously, thank you."

I waited in my car while Jessica left her rating. Five stars, as always. But the review made something in my chest tighten: "Miles is exactly what a dad should be—patient, kind, and really listens. His kids are so lucky. Book him for anything!"

I read it three times, each iteration carrying weight Jessica could never understand. She had no way of knowing that her casual observation was both completely accurate and devastatingly wrong.

The drive home took me past Willa's high school. I slowed without meaning to, scanning the parking lot as if I might catch a glimpse of her walking to her car. The building looked the same as it had three years ago, but everything else had changed. Willa was a junior now, probably thinking about college applications and SAT scores and all the milestones I'd been missing.

My phone buzzed with new requests. Three different bookings for the weekend—a divorced dad needing help with his son's birthday party, an elderly man wanting assistance with technology, a woman who needed someone to attend her work happy hour for moral support.

I accepted all three before pulling into my apartment complex.

That evening, I found myself scrolling through my completed jobs like someone reviewing a portfolio. Each entry told a small story of temporary connection. Each client had left variations of the same review: "Miles felt like family." "You can tell he's a real dad." "His kids are so lucky."

On my laptop screen, the Rent-a-Dad dashboard displayed my metrics with corporate precision: response time, completion rate, customer satisfaction. Everything quantified, everything optimized. The perfect system for measuring professional success.

But there was no metric for the growing emptiness that followed me home after each five-star review. No algorithm that could calculate the cost of being everyone's perfect temporary father while failing to be anyone's imperfect permanent one.

I looked again at the framed photo on my nightstand. Willa and Jack, frozen in time, squinting into the sun and smiling at their father. In the photo, I was someone they trusted completely, someone they turned to for answers and comfort and the assurance that everything would be okay.

When was the last time they'd looked at me that way?

My phone buzzed with another review: "Miles has such a natural way with kids. His own children must adore him."

I closed the app and got ready for bed, but sleep felt elusive. Tomorrow I'd help a nervous father throw a birthday party, provide confident guidance that would earn me another glowing review. I'd be exactly what he needed me to be, for exactly as long as he needed me to be it.

But lying in the darkness, surrounded by the carefully curated emptiness of my studio apartment, I couldn't escape the growing certainty that I'd become an expert at everything except the one thing that mattered most.

The irony was beginning to feel less like coincidence and more like punishment. Every day, I helped other people's children navigate their confusion and uncertainty. Every day, I proved that I understood what young people needed from father figures.

And every day, my own children were learning to live without that understanding, building lives that no longer included space for their father's guidance.

Tomorrow would bring Elena—seventeen, brilliant, struggling with college applications and family dynamics that sounded painfully familiar. I would listen to her concerns with perfect patience, ask exactly the right questions, provide the kind of support that had made me the top-rated dad in the metro area.

But tonight, I couldn't stop wondering what Willa might be writing in her own college essays, what dreams she was pursuing without anyone to help her find the words.

Chapter 3: Naturally Good

The follow-up email arrived at 7 AM, marked urgent. Tom, the recently divorced father I'd agreed to help with his eight-year-old son's birthday party, had sent more details. "New apartment, not sure how to make this work. Kid loves Pokemon and water balloons. Please help—this needs to be perfect."

I understood the desperation in those words. Divorced fathers carried a particular kind of pressure, trying to prove that their new circumstances didn't mean diminished love. Every interaction became a performance, every event a test of their continued relevance in their children's lives.

Saturday afternoon found me at Tom's apartment complex, arms full of Pokemon decorations and party supplies. Tom met me in the parking lot—early forties and slightly frantic, checking his phone every few seconds.

"This is Jake's first birthday since the divorce," he said as we carried supplies upstairs. "I want him to know this place can be fun too."

Tom's apartment was sparse but trying. Mismatched furniture, walls bearing the faint outlines where pictures had once hung. Pokemon decorations arranged with careful enthusiasm that couldn't quite mask the underlying sadness of starting over.

"How many kids are coming?"

"Four, plus Jake. His mom drops them off at 2:00." Tom checked his phone nervously. "Think hot dogs and cake are enough?"

"More than enough. What's Jake into besides Pokemon?"

"Water fights, video games, being loud." Tom's expression softened with the particular affection fathers carried for their sons' chaotic energy. "He's a good kid. I just want him to have fun here."

The apartment felt temporary in the way that recently divorced homes often did—functional but not yet transformed into a place where a child might feel completely at home. I could see Tom's anxiety in every carefully placed decoration, his need for this day to prove something important.

When the doorbell rang at exactly 2:00, Tom's face went tense with performance anxiety.

Jake bounded through the door with the boundless energy of eight-year-old excitement, followed by four friends who immediately began assessing the party setup with the critical eye of experienced birthday attendees.

"Dad! You got the Pokemon balloons!" Jake's enthusiasm was genuine, uncomplicated by adult concerns about apartment size or decoration quality.

"And we've got water balloons for outside," I said, introducing myself with the easy confidence I'd learned to project. "But first, I heard someone has some pretty impressive Pokemon cards."

Jake's face lit up. "Want to see my Charizard? It's holographic!"

For the next twenty minutes, I listened to Jake and his friends explain the intricate hierarchies of Pokemon power levels with the focused attention their expertise deserved. This was what I'd learned from eight months of professional fathering—children needed to be heard as much as they needed to be entertained.

"This is a really cool Charizard," I said, examining the card with museum-quality seriousness.

"My mom got it for me last month," Jake said, then glanced at his father with careful loyalty. "But Dad said we could look for more cards sometime."

"That sounds like a great adventure."

Jake's smile was immediate and genuine—the uncomplicated joy of a child whose interests were treated as important by adults who mattered.

The party unfolded with organized chaos. Water balloon fights in the courtyard, pizza devoured with eight-year-old efficiency, a birthday cake that prompted enthusiastic but off-key singing. Throughout, I found myself moving between supporting Tom and engaging with the children, providing the kind of seamless assistance that had earned me countless five-star reviews.

But something felt different this time. Watching Jake's face as he opened presents, seeing his careful attention to his father's reactions, I recognized something that made my chest tighten with unexpected emotion.

Jake was performing too. Not the innocent joy I'd initially perceived, but the more complex performance of a child trying to help his father succeed at an interaction that mattered to both of them.

When Jake showed me a drawing of his favorite Pokemon, I studied it with appropriate care. "You really captured the way Pikachu's ears move. That's not easy to draw."

"You think it's good?"

"I think it's excellent. Your dad should hang this on the refrigerator."

Jake looked toward Tom with hopeful expectation. Tom's face lit up with understanding, the moment when he realized what his role should be.

"Absolutely going on the fridge. Right next to the birthday pictures we're taking."

Jake beamed—not just at the praise, but at his father's enthusiastic response. I watched their interaction with growing recognition of something I'd been trying not to acknowledge.

I knew exactly how to facilitate this moment because I'd lived through countless versions of it. The careful attention to a child's creative efforts, the importance of displaying their work prominently, the way validation from a father could transform a child's understanding of their own capabilities.

These weren't skills I'd developed through Rent-a-Dad training. They were memories, muscle memory from years of similar moments with my own children.

"You're really good at this," Tom said later, while kids ran around the courtyard burning off sugar-fueled energy. "Jake hasn't stopped smiling. You must have kids around this age?"

The familiar question, delivered with genuine curiosity. I gave my practiced deflection: "I've got some experience with birthday parties."

"Whatever your secret is, it works. Jake keeps asking when 'Dad's friend Miles' is coming back."

The satisfaction of a job well done mixed with something more complex. Tom had needed confidence, and I'd provided it. Jake had needed his father to succeed at creating fun, and I'd helped make that happen.

But underneath was something else—recognition that I was exceptionally good at temporary fatherhood in ways that felt both natural and devastatingly familiar.

I knew how to connect with an eight-year-old because I'd once been responsible for connecting with two children who'd needed the same patient attention. I understood the importance of validating their interests because I remembered how Willa's face had lit up when I'd praised her artwork, how Jack had glowed when I'd listened seriously to his explanations of video game strategy.

The skills that made me so successful with clients weren't professional training. They were the accumulated experience of someone who had once been excellent at permanent fatherhood—before fear and failure had convinced him to abandon it entirely.

That evening, as I drove home through traffic, Tom's review appeared on my phone: "Miles was incredible with the kids and really helped me feel confident. You can tell he's experienced with children—just has that natural way of connecting with them that you can't fake. Jake keeps asking when 'Dad's friend Miles' is coming back."

Tom was right—I was experienced with children. I did have a natural way of connecting with them.

But experience and nature were complicated things. Natural ability meant nothing if you were too afraid to use it where it mattered most.

At home, I found myself standing in my bathroom, staring at the small blue toothbrush that sat next to mine. I picked it up and turned it over—sized for a child, probably around eight years old. The bristles were still good, barely used, as if purchased for someone who'd only visited occasionally.

Jack's toothbrush. From when he'd stayed over during the first months after the divorce, before the visits became too painful for all of us.

In my bedroom dresser, beneath carefully folded clothes, was the book I'd bought for him: "Dinosaurs: A Kids' Guide to the Prehistoric World." Bright cover designed to capture a curious ten-year-old's imagination. I flipped through pages of detailed illustrations, remembering the excitement in Jack's voice when he'd talked about paleontology, his dreams of discovering new species.

I'd bought the book planning to give it to him during one of our scheduled visits. But the visits had become increasingly awkward, filled with my fumbling attempts to fit fatherhood into court-mandated time slots. Eventually, they'd stopped altogether.

The book had been sitting in my dresser for three years, waiting for a conversation that might never happen.

These objects—the toothbrush, the book, the photo on my nightstand—felt like evidence from a parallel life. Proof that I'd once been someone's permanent father, someone whose opinion mattered not because they'd hired me but because they loved me.

I was good at being a father. Tom's review had said I had a natural way with children that couldn't be faked. Jake had spent the afternoon treating me like the kind of adult who understood what mattered to kids.

They were all right. I was naturally good at fatherhood, experienced with children, patient and present and genuinely interested in their thoughts.

But being naturally good at something and actually doing it were two very different things.

And somewhere across town, my own children were living their lives without the benefit of abilities I shared freely with strangers.

Chapter 4: The Harder Truth

Elena was already at our corner table when I arrived at Starbucks, college application materials spread like battle plans across the small surface. At seventeen, she carried herself with equal parts determination and anxiety—the hallmark of a student facing life-changing decisions.

"I've been working on the essay we talked about," she said, turning her laptop toward me. "The animal shelter one. But I'm still not sure it's interesting enough."

The writing was good—thoughtful, authentic, genuinely voiced in a way that would stand out to admissions officers. I read carefully, noting the places where her personality emerged most clearly.

"Tell me what makes you think it's not interesting enough."

"Everyone writes about volunteering. It's not like I'm saving the world. I'm mostly cleaning kennels and filling water bowls."

"But that's not really what your essay is about, is it?"

I leaned forward, using the gentle encouragement that had earned me countless five-star reviews. "You wrote about that moment when someone sees their pet for the first time. What is it about that moment that matters to you?"

Elena's expression shifted as she considered the question, her face moving from defensive uncertainty to thoughtful engagement. "I guess... it's about belonging? The dog has been waiting, and the person has been looking for something they didn't know they needed, and then they find each other."

"That sounds pretty interesting to me."

"You really think so?"

"I think it sounds like you understand something important about connection. About how sometimes the most meaningful relationships happen when we stop looking so hard and just stay open to possibility."

Elena smiled—the first completely unguarded expression I'd seen from her today. "When you put it like that, it does sound more significant."

We worked for an hour, me asking questions that helped Elena explore her ideas while she refined her essay into something that captured not just her activities but her perspective on what those activities meant.

This was what I was genuinely good at—creating space for someone else's thinking, treating their concerns with respect, helping them discover their own insights rather than imposing my conclusions.

"You know what's weird?" Elena said as she saved a stronger draft. "My dad keeps saying he wants to help with college stuff, but every time we try to talk, he just gives advice about practical things. Which majors make money, whether I should apply closer to home."

"That sounds frustrating."

"It's like he thinks being helpful means solving problems instead of just... listening." Elena looked at me directly. "You're really good at that. The listening part. You must have kids this age?"

The familiar weight of careful misdirection settled over me. "I have some experience with teenagers."

"Lucky them. I bet you're one of those dads who actually shows up to things."

Something twisted in my stomach, sharp and immediate. "I try to be there when it matters."

"My dad's always promising to come to my stuff but then something comes up with work. Like, last month he missed my speech tournament because of some client thing." Elena's voice carried typical teenage frustration. "I mean, I get that work is important, but it's like... I don't know. It just sucks when you're expecting someone and they don't show."

I nodded, recognizing the disappointment in her voice.

"Sometimes I just want him to ask about my day and actually listen to the answer instead of immediately trying to fix whatever I'm worried about." Elena shrugged with resigned acceptance—a teenager who'd learned not to expect too much from her parents. "But whatever. At least you get it."

"It's exactly what I'm being paid for," I said, but the words felt strange in my mouth.

Elena managed a small smile. "You know what's crazy? Sometimes I pretend you're my dad. When I'm trying to figure out how to handle something difficult, I imagine what you would say."

The observation struck me like cold water. A seventeen-year-old girl was fantasizing about having me as her father while my own daughter was somewhere else, probably having this exact conversation with a guidance counselor or friend—anyone but the father who'd abandoned her emotional needs out of fear and inadequacy.

"I'm sure your father cares about your thoughts too," I said carefully.

"Maybe. But he doesn't know how to show it. He's always trying to fix things instead of just listening." Elena pulled out a tissue. "I know he means well, but I feel like I'm competing with his job for attention, and the job always wins."

I nodded, recognizing every word as something Willa had probably thought about me countless times. The painful irony was that I'd become exactly the kind of father Elena wished she had—patient, present, genuinely interested in her thoughts and struggles.

But I'd developed these qualities while practicing on other people's children.

"The weird thing is, I know exactly what kind of parent I want to be someday," Elena continued. "Patient, present, someone who shows up even for small stuff." She gestured toward me with unconscious certainty. "Someone like you."

The words landed with surgical precision. Here was a seventeen-year-old articulating everything I'd failed to be for my own children, praising me for qualities I'd only learned to embody after walking away from the people who needed them most.

"What makes you think I'm like that?" I asked, genuinely curious how my professional persona appeared to someone who saw me as an idealized father figure.

"Because you are. You listen like what I'm saying actually matters. You ask questions that help me think instead of telling me what to think. You show up when you say you will." Elena's voice was matter-of-fact, stating what she considered obvious truth. "I wish my real dad was half as present as you are."

The phrase stung with unexpected force. Half as present as you are. Elena's casual wish revealed everything wrong with my life in a single sentence.

We worked on her essay for another hour, but I couldn't concentrate. Elena's words kept echoing: I wish my real dad was half as present as you are.

When we finished, Elena packed up her materials with visible satisfaction. "Thank you for this. You always help me see things more clearly."

"You do the work. I just ask questions."

"Good questions, though. The kind that make me think." Elena shouldered her backpack. "Same time next week?"

"Absolutely."

That evening, Elena's review appeared in my notifications: "Miles continues to be amazing. He helped me work through both my college essay and some family stuff. I wish my real dad was half as present as he is. His kids are so lucky to have someone who really shows up for them."

I read it three times, each word cutting deeper. Elena's wish—that her father could be half as present as I was—revealed the fundamental contradiction at the heart of my existence.

I was present for other people's children while being completely absent from my own children's lives. I'd perfected the art of temporary fatherhood while abandoning permanent fatherhood entirely.

And I was the only person who could change that.

But first, I had to find the courage to try.

Chapter 5: You Should Call Them

The booking request came marked "urgent." Linda, recently divorced, needed "stable dad energy" during a custody meeting with her ex-husband. Her eight-year-old son Tyler would be there, and she wanted someone present who could help him feel secure while adults worked through complicated logistics.

I'd done this kind of work before—providing emotional stability during family transitions. It required particular finesse: authoritative enough to feel secure, neutral enough not to complicate already difficult dynamics.

The family mediation center felt more like a living room than a legal facility. Soft lighting, comfortable furniture, children's books strategically placed on side tables. Linda was waiting with Tyler when I arrived—a woman in her mid-thirties, exhausted but determined.

Tyler sat beside her, swinging his legs from an oversized chair, focused on his handheld gaming device with intense eight-year-old concentration.

"Thank you for coming," Linda said. "I know this situation is... unusual."

"Not unusual at all. Sometimes it helps to have an extra adult when things feel complicated."

Tyler looked up with the frank assessment children brought to new people. "Are you my mom's new boyfriend?"

"No. I'm just here to help today. What game are you playing?"

"Minecraft. I'm building a castle with a moat and everything." Tyler's enthusiasm was immediate and uncomplicated. "Want to see?"

For ten minutes, I listened to Tyler explain his digital architecture with focused attention. Linda watched with visible relief as Tyler relaxed, treating my presence as natural rather than intrusive.

When Tyler's father arrived, the atmosphere shifted perceptibly. David was early forties, business suit suggesting important meetings and tight schedules. He greeted Linda with careful politeness and Tyler with slightly awkward affection that suggested their relationship was still finding its post-divorce rhythm.

"Who's this?" David asked, nodding toward me with barely concealed irritation.

"This is Miles. He's here to help Tyler feel comfortable during the meeting."

David's expression flickered between confusion and annoyance. "Tyler doesn't need a babysitter."

"He's not a babysitter," Tyler said matter-of-factly, not looking up from his game. "He's just nice."

The mediation session took place in a conference room designed to feel informal—round table, tissue boxes strategically placed, artwork that suggested hope and resolution. The mediator, Janet, explained ground rules while Tyler settled at a small table in the corner with crayons and paper, his gaming device forgotten for the moment.

"We're here to establish a visitation schedule that works for everyone," Janet said. "The goal is consistency and stability for Tyler."

I sat close enough to Tyler to provide support but distant enough not to interfere with the legal process. My role was simple: be present, be calm, help Tyler feel secure while adults made decisions about his future.

"I think weekends work best," David was saying. "Friday after school through Sunday evening gives us quality time together."

"What about Wednesday evenings?" Linda asked. "Tyler mentioned wanting to see you during the week too."

"Wednesday is tough with work commitments. Weekend schedules are more realistic for everyone involved."

I watched Tyler's reaction carefully. He'd stopped coloring and was listening with the focused attention only children have for conversations about their own lives. His expression was careful, neutral—he'd learned that his preferences might not matter most in adult decisions.

"Tyler," Janet said gently, "how do you feel about spending weekends with your dad?"

Tyler glanced at me before answering, seeking some kind of reassurance that his opinion mattered. "It's good. I like being with Dad."

"Is there anything you'd want to be different about the visits?"

Tyler considered seriously before responding. "Maybe... not every single weekend? Sometimes I want to do things with friends too."

David's face tightened slightly. "We only get two days a week together, buddy. That's not very much time as it is."

"I know. I just meant sometimes. Like, maybe we could do other stuff during the week instead?"

"We'll see. Weekends are when I'm most available."

The conversation continued for an hour, adults negotiating the logistics of a child's divided life. Throughout, Tyler colored steadily, occasionally glancing up when major decisions were being made about his future living arrangements.

I found myself admiring his resilience—the way he absorbed complicated adult information without becoming overwhelmed, his ability to express his needs clearly despite being the person with the least power in the room.

When the session ended, the adults had reached agreement about visitation schedules and holiday arrangements. Tyler would spend alternate weekends with David, with additional time during school breaks.

"How do you feel about all that?" I asked Tyler as we gathered his coloring supplies.

"It's okay." Tyler's voice was carefully neutral. Then he looked at me directly with the kind of question only children asked without filter.

"Are you going to be my new dad?"

The words made me freeze. Tyler's expression was hopeful but careful—a child who'd learned that adult relationships were temporary but still allowed himself to wonder about possibilities.

"No," I said gently, sitting so we were at eye level. "I'm just here to help today."

Tyler's face fell slightly, but he nodded with practical acceptance that broke my heart. "But you're better at dad stuff than my real dad."

The observation was delivered without malice, just straightforward honesty that eight-year-olds brought to complex situations. But it landed with devastating force, cutting straight to truths that adults spent years avoiding.

"Your real dad loves you very much," I said carefully, trying to find words that honored Tyler's experience while supporting the relationship he needed to maintain. "Sometimes adults get confused about how to show that love, but that doesn't mean it's not there."

"How do you know?"

I looked at Tyler—eight years old, caught between parents too overwhelmed by their own pain to fully see his confusion—and saw something that made my throat constrict with recognition.

"Because dads who don't love their kids don't usually worry about whether they're doing a good job. Your dad is trying to figure out the best way to take care of you."

Tyler absorbed this with the serious consideration he brought to all adult explanations. "Do you have kids?"

The question hung in the air between us. I could give my usual deflection, my practiced response about older children with their own lives. Instead, I found myself saying something different.

"Yes. Two."

"Are they happy?"

I felt something crack open inside me, a question I'd been avoiding for three years finally spoken aloud by someone innocent enough to ask it directly.

"I hope so. I think they are. But I don't know for sure."

"Why don't you know?"

"Because we don't talk very often."

Tyler absorbed this information with matter-of-fact acceptance, nodding as if adult failures were just another puzzling fact about the world.

"Why not?"

I looked at this eight-year-old asking the question I'd been avoiding for three years, and realized I didn't have a good answer. All my careful justifications—giving them space, avoiding conflict, waiting for the right moment—crumbled under the simple curiosity of a child who understood that people who loved each other stayed in contact.

"Sometimes adults make mistakes," I said finally. "And sometimes those mistakes get bigger the longer you wait to fix them."

"Why don't you just call them?"

The simplicity of his question was devastating. No complex analysis of timing and hurt feelings, no consideration of pride or fear of rejection. Just the obvious solution that only a child would voice so directly.

"You think I should?"

"Yeah. My dad calls me even when he can't come over. It makes me happy because then I know he's thinking about me." Tyler picked up his coloring supplies, then added with eight-year-old practicality, "Calling is better than nothing."

Tyler's words hit with the force of absolute truth. Even in the middle of his parents' divorce, even when visits were awkward and scheduling was complicated, a phone call from his father meant something essential: proof that he remained important to someone who mattered.

Linda appeared at my elbow, having finished her conversation with the mediator. "Ready to go, Tyler?"

"Yeah." Tyler looked up at me one more time. "Remember what I said, okay?"

"I'll remember."

That evening, after receiving another five-star review praising my "natural ability to connect with children during difficult family transitions," I sat in my car outside my apartment building, staring at my phone.

The review felt different somehow—lighter, less central to my sense of worth. I noticed things I'd been missing for months: the way the late afternoon light caught the windows of the building across the street, the sound of children playing in a nearby playground, the smell of someone grilling dinner on a balcony above.

When had I stopped paying attention to the world outside client interactions?

Tyler's words echoed: You should call them.

I scrolled to a contact I hadn't used in three years: Willa Peterson. My daughter, sixteen now, probably thinking about college applications and dating and all the milestones I'd been missing while perfecting temporary fatherhood with strangers.

The contact photo was years old—Willa at thirteen, smiling at something outside the frame. I wondered if she still looked like this, or if three years had changed her in ways I'd never know unless I found the courage to find out.

Tyler's words came back: My dad calls me even when he can't come over. It makes me happy because then I know he's thinking about me.

Maybe the content of the conversation mattered less than the fact of the call itself. Maybe Willa didn't need explanations as much as evidence that her father was still thinking about her.

I touched her number before I could change my mind.

Four rings, then voicemail. Willa's voice, familiar but changed by three years of growth I'd missed: "Hi, you've reached Willa. Leave a message."

The beep. My heart pounding.

"Hi Willa, it's Dad. I know it's been too long, and I know that's my fault."

I paused, trying to find words that conveyed everything without overwhelming her.

"I was just thinking about you and wondering how you're doing. I wonder what you're reading, what you're worried about, what makes you laugh. I wonder if you still sing in the shower and if you've learned to drive."

My voice caught slightly.

"You don't have to call back if you don't want to, but I wanted you to know that I think about you every day. I hope you're happy. I hope you feel loved and supported, even if I haven't been providing that support."

The words that felt most important:

"I love you, Willa. I've never stopped loving you. And if you're willing to give me a chance, I'd like to try to be your dad again."

I hung up and immediately regretted it. Too much, not enough, probably too late.

But Tyler's words followed me up to my apartment: You should call them.

I had called. Now I had to wait and see if three years of silence could be bridged by one honest voicemail.

Chapter 6: No Rating System

I woke to silence.

No notifications. No messages. No indication that Willa had even listened to the voicemail I'd agonized over for two days.

It had been thirty-six hours since I'd called her, thirty-six hours of checking my phone every few minutes like a teenager waiting for a text from a crush. I'd imagined every possible response—anger, indifference, a polite rejection, complete silence. What I hadn't prepared for was this particular kind of limbo, where hope and dread occupied the same space in my chest.

I made coffee and tried to focus on the day ahead. Thursday morning meant potential client work, emails to answer, a routine that had once felt purposeful and now felt hollow. But every task was interrupted by the magnetic pull of my phone, the compulsive need to check for messages that weren't there.

By noon, I was convinced I'd ruined everything. The voicemail had been too emotional, too desperate, too much like the selfish father who'd abandoned his children and expected forgiveness on his timeline. Willa was probably showing it to her friends, or worse, deleting it without a second thought.

I was staring at my phone for the hundredth time when it finally buzzed.

A text from an unknown number: "Hey Dad. Got your voicemail. Can we talk sometime?"

I stared at the screen until my vision blurred, then read it again. Willa had responded. After three years and thirty-six hours of silence, she was willing to talk.

"I'd like that very much. When works for you?"

"Tomorrow after school? Coffee somewhere neutral?"

"Starbucks on Fifth Street, 4:00?"

"Sounds good. See you then."

I sat in the silence of my apartment, trying to process what had just happened. Tomorrow, I would sit across from my daughter and try to rebuild a relationship I'd let deteriorate through absence and fear.

For the first time in months, I declined all incoming booking requests for the following day. Whatever my clients needed, Willa needed more.

Tyler had been right. I should call them.

And somehow, miraculously, they had answered.

I arrived fifteen minutes early, ordered coffee I didn't want, and chose a corner table where I could see the door. My hands shook as I checked my phone repeatedly. 3:47 PM. Willa would be here soon.

At exactly 4:00, Willa walked through the door.

She was taller than I remembered, with her mother's dark hair and eyes that held both curiosity and wariness. No longer the thirteen-year-old from my memories, but a young woman who moved through the world with careful confidence I didn't recognize.

She spotted me immediately and walked over with measured steps. When she reached the table, she didn't sit right away—just stood there studying my face as if trying to reconcile the father in front of her with whatever version she'd been carrying in memory.

"Hi," Willa said finally, sitting down with careful distance.

"Hi," I replied, realizing I had no idea what came next.

Three years of silence sat between us like a third person at the table. Willa seemed older than sixteen—self-possessed in a way that suggested she'd learned to evaluate which adults deserved her trust.

"Thank you for coming," I said. "I wasn't sure you would."

"I wasn't sure either. Mom said it was up to me, and I've been thinking about it since your voicemail."

"What did you decide?"

Willa considered this seriously. "I thought it was honest. Not trying to make excuses or pretend things weren't weird. Just honest about missing me."

I felt a complicated mix of guilt and hope. "I do miss you. I miss being part of your life, knowing what's important to you."

"You could have called earlier."

Matter-of-fact. Not accusatory, just truth delivered with the directness I remembered from her childhood.

"I could have. I was afraid you wouldn't want to talk to me, and I didn't know how to handle that possibility."

Willa's expression shifted slightly, something that might have been understanding mixed with disappointment. "That's pretty cowardly, Dad."

"Yeah. It is."

"But I get it. I was afraid to text you back for three days."

We talked carefully at first—school, her part-time job at a veterinary clinic, learning to drive. She was terrible at parallel parking, she admitted with a self-deprecating smile that reminded me painfully of her mother.

"I keep hitting the curb. Mom gets nervous when she teaches me, which makes me more nervous."

"Parallel parking is tricky. It's mostly about reference points and taking it slow."

"Are you offering to teach me?" Something in her tone—testing whether I was prepared to move from abstract conversation to actual fathering.

"I would love to teach you to parallel park."

"Good. Because Mom's method involves dramatic gasping and dashboard grabbing."

I laughed, and for a moment it felt almost natural. But then Willa's expression grew serious.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Anything."

"What happened to you after the divorce? For three years, I've been wondering what my dad's life looked like without us in it."

The question hung in the air between us. I could hear the espresso machine hissing behind the counter, the murmur of other conversations, the normal sounds of a coffee shop afternoon. My hands felt clammy around my coffee mug, and I was suddenly aware of my heartbeat in a way that suggested my body understood the importance of this moment even if my mind was still catching up.

The silence stretched. Willa waited with the patient attention she'd probably learned from years of navigating adult emotions, but I could see her studying my face, cataloging my hesitation.

"I worked a lot. Kept busy."

"Doing what?"

My phone, sitting face-up on the table between us, chose that moment to buzz with a notification. The Rent-a-Dad app icon was clearly visible as a new review appeared on the lock screen.

Willa's eyes flicked to the phone, then back to my face. "Rent-a-Dad?" she read aloud, her voice carrying a note of confusion. "What's Rent-a-Dad?"

The silence stretched. I could either lie about what she'd just seen or finally tell the truth I'd been avoiding.

"It's an app where people hire me to help with things that dads usually do."

Willa stared at me, then at my phone, then back at me. "You what?"

"People hire me to teach parallel parking, give advice, attend events when their families can't be there."

Willa picked up my phone without asking, swiping to read the full notification. Her expression shifted through confusion, surprise, and something that looked like pain.

"So you've been practicing being a dad with other people while not being a dad to me and Jack."

The words struck me with unexpected force. Not cruel, just accurate. "Yes."

"That's really messed up, Dad."

I wanted to explain, to provide context that might soften the stark reality of what I'd done. Instead, I said, "You're right. It is really messed up."

Willa was quiet, reading more reviews with careful attention. I watched her face cycle through emotions—anger, hurt, something that might have been understanding, then back to pain.

"Listen to this one: 'Miles helped my daughter with her college essays and really made her feel heard. You can tell he's experienced with teenagers. His own kids are going to do amazing things.'" Willa's voice was steady, but I caught the slight tremor underneath. "This girl thinks you're the perfect dad."

She set my phone down and looked out the window, her jaw tight in a way that reminded me of her mother when she was trying not to cry.

"I need to understand something, Dad." When she turned back, her eyes were bright with unshed tears. "You've spent three years getting five-star reviews for being patient and present and emotionally available. You've helped teenagers with college applications, supported divorced dads, provided 'stable father energy' for kids whose families were falling apart."

Her voice cracked slightly on the next words: "But you couldn't send me a text on my birthday."

I felt something fundamental cracking inside me. "No. I couldn't."

"Why?" The question came out sharper than she'd intended, and I saw her immediately try to pull back, to be reasonable. "Sorry, I just—why was it easier to be present for strangers than for us?"

The vulnerability in that question—the way she'd inadvertently revealed how much my absence had hurt—made my throat constrict.

"Because with clients, I know what to do. Clear expectations, defined boundaries, a beginning and end. I can be perfect for two hours and go home." I looked at Willa's face, seeing the hurt I'd created through years of choosing the easy path over the right one. "With you and Jack, there's no script. No way to guarantee I won't mess it up. After the divorce, when everything felt broken, I convinced myself it was better to stay away than risk making things worse."

Willa wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, and I could see her fighting between wanting to comfort me and needing to stay angry.

"But you did make things worse. By staying away." Her voice was quiet but firm. "Do you know how many times I've started to call you? How many times I've written texts I never sent?"

"Willa—"

"No, let me finish." She took a shaky breath. "I spent three years wondering if you even thought about me. And now I find out that for months you've been helping girls my age with their problems while I was facing mine alone."

The words cut deep like physical blows. Willa was describing exactly what I'd been doing—seeing her in every teenage client, using their needs as a substitute for addressing her own.

"And the worst part," she continued, her voice getting stronger, "is that I can see you're good at this. You're genuinely good at being what people need. Which means you could have been that for me, but you chose not to try."

Willa stared at me for a long moment, and I could see her warring with herself—part of her wanting to walk away, part of her wanting to stay and fight for a relationship we'd both lost.

"I need you to understand something," she said finally. "I never needed you to be perfect. When you disappeared after the divorce, it wasn't because we expected too much. It was because you expected too much from yourself."

The words landed with revelatory force. "What do you mean?"

"You thought you had to have all the answers, had to know exactly how to handle everything. But kids don't need their parents to be perfect. They just need them to try. To show up, even when it's awkward, even when they don't know what to say."

I felt tears I hadn't expected. "That's what Tyler told me. Almost exactly those words."

"Tyler?"

"An eight-year-old whose parents were going through a custody hearing. I was there to help him feel secure while adults made decisions about his life." I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. "He said I should call you. Said kids feel better when their dads call, even when the conversation is awkward."

"Smart kid. He's right." Willa's expression softened slightly, but I could see her still fighting with her emotions. "I spent three years wondering if you still loved me, if you thought about me, if you ever wanted to call but couldn't figure out how. And the whole time, you were out there being the perfect dad to teenagers who reminded you of me."

"I'm so sorry, Willa. I know I can't undo the damage, but maybe we could start over? Build something new from here?"

Willa's face immediately closed off, and I realized I'd said exactly the wrong thing.

"Start over?" Her voice was sharp. "Dad, you can't just erase three years because you're finally ready to try again."

"That's not what I meant—"

"It's exactly what you meant. You want to pretend like the time I spent wondering if my father still loved me didn't happen. You want to skip past the part where you have to actually account for your choices."

I felt the conversation slipping away from me, watched Willa's guarded expression return. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to minimize—"

"You're doing it again," Willa said, but not unkindly. "Trying to find the perfect thing to say instead of just being honest about how messed up this all is."

I stopped, took a breath, forced myself to sit with the discomfort instead of trying to fix it. "You're right. I'm sorry."

"I don't need you to manage this conversation, Dad. I need you to be real in it."

The correction stung because it was accurate. Even now, I was falling back into professional mode, trying to say what I thought she needed to hear instead of wrestling with the genuine complexity of our situation.

"You're absolutely right," I said, feeling my way toward honesty. "I am trying to manage this. I'm terrified of saying the wrong thing and losing you again."

"You can't lose me again, Dad. You already lost me. That already happened." Willa's voice was matter-of-fact but not cruel. "The question is whether we can build something new, not whether we can pretend the loss didn't happen."

I wanted to say something that would fix the hurt, but there were no words adequate to three years of absence. The silence stretched between us, filled with everything that couldn't be undone.

"What can I do?"

Willa considered this seriously, her face reflecting the careful thought she brought to important decisions.

"You can stop being perfect for strangers and start being imperfect for us. You can accept that rebuilding this relationship is going to be messy and awkward and that there's no rating system to tell you how you're doing."

"I want to do that."

"Good. Because I want my dad back. Not the professional version who gets five-star reviews, but the real version who makes mistakes and tries to fix them." Willa's voice was steady but emotional. "I want the dad who taught me to ride a bike and helped with homework and came to school plays even when he was tired."

"That dad is still here. I just forgot how to be him."

"Then remember. And start with Jack, because he's angrier than I am and he's going to be harder to convince."

We talked for another hour, making tentative plans to meet the following week and discussing the possibility of involving Jack in future conversations. As we prepared to leave, Willa pulled out her phone.

"Can I ask you one more thing?"

"Of course."

"Are you going to keep doing the Rent-a-Dad thing?"

I thought about my calendar, full of clients who relied on my consistency, people who needed what I could offer. "I don't know. Maybe not as much. Why?"

"Because those kids you help—they really need you. And you're good at it." Willa's expression was thoughtful, more generous than I deserved. "But maybe you could be good at it because you're also good at being a real dad, not as a substitute for being a real dad."

The observation was wise beyond her years. Maybe the skills I'd developed weren't incompatible with permanent fatherhood—maybe they were preparation for it.

"I'll think about that."

"Good." Willa stood up, and for a moment I thought she might hug me. Instead, she looked at me with an expression that held both hope and caution. "See you next week, Dad."

"See you next week."

As Willa walked away, I felt something I hadn't experienced in years: hope that felt earned rather than desperate.

That evening, I began declining booking requests for the first time since joining the platform. Not all of them—I still wanted to help people who needed what I could offer. But I was learning to say no when those requests conflicted with opportunities to be present for my own children.

My apartment felt different when I walked in. The careful minimalism that had once felt controlled now seemed sterile. I found myself leaving my coffee mug on the counter instead of washing it immediately, letting a book rest open on the side table. Small rebellions against the perfect order I'd maintained for so long.

My phone buzzed with a text from Willa: "Had a good time talking today. Thanks for being honest. See you next week."

I stared at the message until my vision blurred, then typed back: "Thank you for giving me a chance. I won't waste it."

That night, I slept better than I had in months. No checking ratings before bed, no reviewing the next day's bookings. Instead, I fell asleep thinking about teaching Willa to parallel park, wondering what kind of music she listened to now, imagining conversations we might have that weren't weighed down by three years of absence.

Chapter 7: The Harder Conversation

Three weeks after coffee with Willa, I found myself doing something I'd never done before: declining a booking request that would have been perfect for my schedule and rating. Marcus needed help with parallel parking on Thursday evening—exactly the kind of straightforward session that had built my reputation.

Instead, I was keeping Thursday open because Willa and I had tentative plans, and I'd learned that "tentative" with your own children was more important than "guaranteed" with clients.

My Rent-a-Dad rating had dropped from 5.0 to 4.8. Reliable Rick had overtaken me as the #1 dad in the metro area. Six months ago, this would have been devastating. Now, it felt like progress.

I was learning to be unavailable for the right reasons.

My phone buzzed with a text from Willa: "Still on for Thursday? Jack might want to come too."

I stared at the message, my heart rate immediately accelerating. Jack. My fourteen-year-old son, who I hadn't spoken to in three years, who had every right to be angrier than Willa, who might very well refuse to see me at all.

I typed back: "I'd love to see Jack. Whatever feels comfortable for both of you."

"He's still pretty mad. Fair warning."

"Understood. Thank you for asking him."

"He's curious about you. Even if he won't admit it."

Thursday evening found me at our usual Starbucks, arriving early enough to claim the same corner table where Willa and I had been meeting. My palms were sweating as I checked my phone repeatedly, wondering if Jack would actually show up or if Willa would arrive alone with apologies about his change of heart.

Willa walked in five minutes after 4:00, but she wasn't alone.

Jack followed behind her, moving with that particular teenage mix of confidence and awkwardness. He was taller than I'd expected, with my nose and his mother's stubborn jawline. His hair fell across his forehead in carefully styled casualness that suggested he cared about his appearance while pretending not to.

He spotted Willa immediately, then his eyes found me. For a moment, we just looked at each other—father and son, separated by three years of silence that felt enormous despite the physical distance of twenty feet.

Jack walked over with measured steps and sat next to Willa with the careful positioning of someone who wanted to be close to an ally. The family resemblance was striking—Willa's thoughtful expression combined with a teenage boy's defensive posture.

"Hi, Jack," I said, my voice sounding strange to my own ears.

"Hi." His voice was deeper than I remembered, with the slight crack of someone still growing into their vocal cords.

For a moment, none of us spoke. Jack looked older than fourteen, carrying himself with careful self-consciousness—a teenager very aware he was being evaluated. But underneath the careful composure, I could see traces of the ten-year-old boy I remembered—quick intelligence, stubborn independence, a sensitivity he tried to hide.

Then Jack looked directly at me with the frank assessment only teenagers could deliver.

"Willa told me about your app thing."

I felt my stomach drop. "She did."

"Yeah. Rent-a-Dad. Pretty messed up."

"Jack," Willa said quietly, but he continued with the relentless honesty that was either going to destroy this conversation or make it real.

"I mean, I get that you had some kind of breakdown after the divorce. But spending three years being other people's dad while ignoring your actual kids is pretty fucked up."

I caught myself before correcting his language, recognizing that Jack was entitled to his anger and his words. "You're right. It is pretty fucked up."

Jack blinked, clearly not expecting agreement. His defensive posture shifted slightly, uncertainty replacing practiced hostility.

"You're not going to argue?"

"What would I argue? You're absolutely right. I disappeared when you needed me most, and I spent that time learning to be the father other people needed while failing to be the father you deserved."

Jack studied my face with teenage skepticism, trying to determine whether I was being honest or just saying what he wanted to hear. His expression was guarded but curious—the look of someone who'd prepared for a fight but wasn't sure what to do with unexpected agreement.

"Willa says you want to try again."

"I do. Very much."

"Why now? What's different?"

Fair question, delivered with the directness I remembered from his childhood. Jack had always been the one to ask the hard questions, to demand logical explanations for adult decisions that didn't make sense to his straightforward understanding of the world.

"I think I finally understand the difference between being good at fatherhood and actually being a father," I said carefully. "For the past eight months, I practiced being patient and present with people who didn't know me well enough to be disappointed when I fell short. But you and Willa knew me when I was just Dad—imperfect, sometimes tired, occasionally grumpy, but consistently there."

Jack absorbed this with teenage seriousness, his expression suggesting he was evaluating not just my words but my sincerity in speaking them.

"So what happens when being our dad gets hard again? When we fight or I do something stupid? Do you disappear for another three years?"

The question cut straight to his real fear—terror that I would abandon him again the moment fatherhood became complicated. His voice carried the particular hurt of someone who'd been disappointed by adults who were supposed to be reliable.

"I can't promise I'll never make mistakes," I said. "But I can promise I won't disappear. Even when things get hard, even when I don't know what to do, I'll stay and figure it out with you."

"How do I know that?"

"Because I'm learning to choose showing up imperfectly over avoiding the possibility of disappointment." I looked at both my children, seeing the skepticism and hope warring in their expressions. "And because losing you both taught me that the pain of potential failure is nothing compared to the pain of actual absence."

Jack was quiet, processing this explanation with the careful thought he brought to important decisions. When he spoke again, his voice was matter-of-fact but carried an undertone of vulnerability.

"I wrote you a letter."

"You did?"

"After Willa started meeting with you. I wrote this whole thing about how angry I was and how you'd ruined everything and how I didn't need a father anymore." Jack's voice was steady, but I could hear the hurt underneath. "But I never sent it."

"Why not?"

Jack shrugged with practiced indifference, but his eyes were serious. "Because Willa said you were trying. And I guess I wanted to see if that was true before I decided whether to hate you forever."

The honesty made my throat constrict. Here was my fourteen-year-old son, articulating the emotional complexity of choosing between justified anger and cautious hope.

"What did you decide?"

Jack looked at me directly for the first time since sitting down. "I'm still deciding."

We talked for the next hour, Jack gradually warming despite his obvious intention to remain skeptical. He told me about school, friends who were obsessed with sports he found boring, his passion for game design that went beyond playing to understanding how digital worlds were constructed.

"I want to create games that actually matter," he said, his eyes lighting up in a way that reminded me of the ten-year-old who'd once spent hours building elaborate contraptions with Legos. "Not just mindless shooting games, but stories where choices have real consequences. Like, what if your decisions in the first five minutes completely changed how the story ended?"

I listened with the same focused attention I'd learned to bring to client work, but it felt different when the person across from me was my own son sharing his dreams.

"That sounds incredible. Have you started learning any programming languages?"

"I'm teaching myself Python, but it's frustrating because I keep hitting walls where I don't understand the math behind what I'm trying to do." Jack's enthusiasm dimmed. "Like, I can make a character move around the screen, but I can't figure out collision detection because it requires trigonometry and I can barely handle algebra."

"What kind of math are you struggling with?"

"Algebra. It's like the numbers mean something, but I can't figure out what. Every equation feels like a puzzle where someone forgot to give me half the pieces."

"Would you like help with it?"

Jack glanced at Willa, then back at me, his expression carefully neutral. "You're good at math?"

"I'm decent. And I'm very patient with people who are learning."

"I bet you are," Jack said with just enough edge to remind me that his cooperation was conditional. "Willa says you're professionally patient."

"I've had practice."

"With other people's kids."

"Yes. But maybe that practice could be useful with my own kids too."

Jack considered this seriously, weighing the potential benefits against the risk of disappointment. "Maybe."

As we prepared to leave, Jack looked at me directly for the first time all evening, his expression carrying both challenge and possibility.

"Are you going to keep doing the dad app thing?"

"Some of it. But not as much. I'm learning to say no when it conflicts with being available for you and Willa."

"Good. Because if you're going to be our dad again, you should probably prioritize that over getting five-star reviews from strangers."

The observation was sharp but not cruel—a fourteen-year-old's practical assessment of what mattered most.

"You're absolutely right."

Jack stood up, shouldering his backpack with careful teenage casualness. But before walking away, he looked at me one more time.

"This doesn't mean I'm not still mad at you."

"I understand."

"But I guess I'm willing to see what happens next."

It wasn't forgiveness, but it was possibility. And for now, that felt like everything.

Chapter 8: Homework and Hope

Two weeks later, I received a text from Jack: "Got a math test Friday. Could use help if you're not too busy being someone else's dad."

I stared at the message, recognizing the careful vulnerability hidden in his sarcasm. He was testing whether I would choose him over client work, whether my promises about prioritizing family were genuine or just words meant to ease my guilt.

I checked my calendar. Thursday evening was open, but I had a booking request from Elena for final college application review. Six months ago, I would have accepted Elena's request immediately—she was a reliable client, the session would boost my ratings, and helping with college applications was exactly the kind of work that had built my reputation.

Instead, I declined Elena's booking and texted Jack: "Thursday evening work? I'll bring pizza and infinite patience."

"Pizza sounds good. Your patience better be actually infinite because I'm really bad at this stuff."

"Challenge accepted."

Thursday evening found me standing outside the house I'd once called home, holding pizza boxes and trying to calm my racing heart. The house looked the same—blue siding, the oak tree in the front yard that Jack had climbed as a child, the window boxes that Sarah maintained with careful attention.

But everything felt different. I was no longer the father who belonged here automatically. I was a visitor, someone who needed permission to enter spaces where I'd once moved freely.

Sarah answered the door with a complicated expression—not hostile, but not welcoming either. We'd spoken briefly when I'd started meeting with Willa, conversations that were polite but careful, focused on logistics rather than the emotional complexity of our shared history.

"He's upstairs," she said simply. "His room is exactly where you remember."

I climbed the stairs, noting the family photos that lined the walls—pictures that chronicled three years of my children's lives without me. Willa at various school events, Jack at birthday parties, both of them growing and changing in ways I'd missed entirely.

Jack's room was exactly what I'd expected and nothing like I remembered. The boy's bedroom I'd helped him decorate years ago had evolved into a teenager's sanctuary—clothes on the floor, gaming setup that probably cost more than my rent, walls covered with posters I didn't recognize.

But underneath the teenage chaos, I could see traces of the child I remembered. A stuffed dinosaur on the bookshelf that he'd probably forgotten was there. Art projects from elementary school tucked between newer belongings. Evidence of the continuous person he'd always been, even as he'd grown into someone I barely knew.

"Hey," Jack said, looking up from his desk where algebra worksheets were spread like evidence of torture. "Thanks for coming."

"Thanks for asking me."

Jack gestured toward the homework with dramatic despair. "As you can see, I'm basically hopeless."

I sat down beside him, looking at equations that seemed designed to intimidate rather than educate. "Show me where you're getting stuck."

Jack pointed to a problem with multiple variables that looked like it belonged in a foreign language textbook. "I can do the easy ones, but when it gets complicated like this, my brain just stops working."

"That's completely normal. Algebra is like learning a new language—it takes time to become fluent."

I walked Jack through the problem step by step, breaking each operation into smaller pieces that felt manageable rather than overwhelming. When he got frustrated, I waited. When he made mistakes, I helped him find them without making him feel stupid.

"You're actually good at this," Jack said after we'd worked through three similar problems.

"Thanks. You're a good student—you just needed someone to explain it differently."

"Mom always acts like I should just understand this stuff automatically. She gets frustrated when I can't follow her explanations."

"Everyone learns differently. There's no shame in needing a different approach."

We worked for two hours, Jack gradually gaining confidence as the patterns became familiar. I found myself remembering why I'd once loved helping my children with homework—the satisfaction of watching understanding dawn in their faces, the way patience could transform confusion into competence.

When we finished, Jack looked at his completed homework with genuine satisfaction. "Thanks. That actually helped a lot."

"Anytime. Seriously."

Jack was quiet for a moment, then looked at me with an expression I couldn't quite read. "You know what's weird? You're better at helping with homework now than you were before."

"What do you mean?"

"Before the divorce, when you helped me with stuff, you always seemed impatient. Like you wanted to give me answers so we could be done faster." Jack's observation was honest reflection, not accusation. "But tonight you actually wanted to make sure I understood everything."

The insight hit unexpectedly. Jack was right—I had been impatient before, more focused on completion than comprehension, more interested in getting through homework quickly than ensuring he truly grasped the concepts.

"You're absolutely right. I think I've learned to pay attention better."

"From your app work?"

"Yeah. Clients taught me that giving people answers isn't the same as helping them learn."

Jack nodded slowly, processing this information. "Maybe that's the one good thing that came out of you abandoning us. You learned how to actually be helpful."

The words were harsh but not cruel—a fourteen-year-old's frank assessment of an impossible situation. Jack was acknowledging that my absence had taught me skills that might ultimately benefit our relationship, even as that absence had caused irreparable damage.

"Maybe so."

"Just don't abandon us again to go help other people, okay?"

The simplicity of his request made my throat tight. "I won't."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

Jack studied my face with teenage skepticism, weighing my words against three years of broken trust. Finally, he nodded.

"Okay. But if you disappear again, I'm done. Like, permanently done."

"I understand."

As I prepared to leave, Jack walked me to the front door—a small gesture that felt enormous after three years of absence.

"Thanks for this," he said. "You're actually good at explaining stuff."

"Thanks. You're a good student."

Jack was quiet for a moment, then looked at me with an expression I couldn't quite read. "You know what's weird? This was way less frustrating than when you used to help me before."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know. You just seem more... patient, I guess." Jack shrugged, not wanting to make it too serious. "Maybe you got better at teaching."

I drove home through familiar streets, my phone buzzing with new booking requests that I declined without reading. For the first time in eight months, client work felt secondary to something more important.

Jack had let me help him with homework. He'd asked me to come back next week. He'd made me promise not to disappear again.

It wasn't forgiveness, but it was trust—fragile, conditional trust that I had one chance not to break.

Chapter 9: Movie Night

Three months later, Willa texted with an invitation that felt like a test: "New Marvel movie Friday. Jack wants to see it. Want to come?"

I stared at the message for several minutes. A movie. Such a simple thing—two hours in a dark theater, sharing popcorn, laughing at the same jokes. The kind of ordinary family activity I'd been missing for three years while perfecting extraordinary temporary connections with strangers.

"I'd love to."

"Fair warning: Jack's going to want the large everything at concessions."

"I'm prepared for financial ruin."

"Movie starts at 7:30. Meet us at 7:00?"

"Absolutely."

Friday evening found me outside the multiplex, watching families walk toward the entrance with casual ownership of their shared rituals. When Willa and Jack appeared at exactly 7:00, walking together with easy sibling coordination, I felt my chest tighten with hope and terror.

Jack had grown even taller in the three months since we'd started our weekly homework sessions. His comfort with me had evolved from grudging acceptance to something approaching genuine warmth, but I was still learning to read his moods, still uncertain about the boundaries of our rebuilt relationship.

When they saw me, Willa waved, but it was Jack's reaction that made my world stop.

He looked at me directly—not the careful glances or polite nods of our early interactions, but the frank assessment of a son deciding whether his father was worth his time.

"Hi, Dad," Jack said simply.

The words hit like a physical force. Not "Miles" or just "hi," but "Dad." After three years of careful distance, Jack was willing to acknowledge me as his father again.

"Hi, Jack."

"Willa says you're buying concessions."

"I am indeed buying concessions."

"Good. Because movie theater prices are basically theft, and I want the large everything."

Willa shot Jack a look that was half warning, half admiration for his teenage audacity.

"The large everything it is," I said.

"Just so we're clear," Jack added as we walked toward the entrance, "this doesn't mean I'm not still mad at you. But I figure if you're buying overpriced candy, I might as well get something out of three years of child abandonment."

The casual reference to my failures should have stung, but Jack's tone was more teasing than bitter. He was learning to joke about our history, which felt like progress.

"That's fair. I owe you a lot more than movie snacks."

"Yeah, you do. But it's a start."

Inside the theater, we found seats in the middle section. Willa sat between Jack and me, a buffer that felt both natural and protective. The arrangement reminded me of countless family outings from years ago, when such positioning had been about optimizing viewing angles rather than managing emotional complexity.

As the previews started, my phone buzzed with a notification. Three new Rent-a-Dad booking requests, including one marked "urgent" from a client who needed help with a family emergency. Six months ago, I would have checked immediately, probably stepped out to read the details.

Tonight, I silenced my phone without looking.

The movie was exactly what you'd expect from a Marvel production—spectacular action sequences, witty dialogue, the kind of entertainment designed to make audiences cheer together. But what struck me most was the simple pleasure of sharing it with Willa and Jack.

When Jack laughed at a ridiculous fight scene, I found myself laughing too. When Willa made a sarcastic comment about superhero physics, I was struck by her quick wit and intelligence. These were my children—not clients who would rate my performance, not temporary relationships with clear boundaries, but permanent connections that would last regardless of how well I managed any individual interaction.

Halfway through the movie, my phone buzzed again with notifications. More booking requests, client messages, the constant demand for professional attention that had defined my life for eight months. I felt the familiar pull to check, to stay available, to maintain the perfect rating that had become my identity.

Instead, I kept my phone in my pocket and focused on the movie.

During the climactic battle sequence, Jack leaned forward with intense teenage focus, completely absorbed in the story unfolding on screen. Willa rolled her eyes at a cheesy romantic subplot but smiled despite herself.

These were the small moments I'd been missing—not grand gestures or milestone events, but the accumulation of shared experiences that created the texture of family life.

When the credits started rolling, Jack turned to me with unguarded enthusiasm.

"That was actually really good. The part where—"

My phone lit up with an incoming text, the screen bright enough to be visible in the dark theater. Elena's name appeared at the top of the notification.

Elena: "Miles, I know it's late but I just got my early admission letter and wanted to thank you for everything. Hope you're having a good evening!"

Jack's expression shifted immediately when he saw the notification, enthusiasm replaced by careful wariness. "You should probably check that. Might be important."

I looked at my phone, then at Jack's face, and realized this was a moment that would define everything moving forward. Six months ago, I would have immediately responded to Willa, proving that urgent always trumped present.

I turned my phone off completely and put it in my pocket.

"Nothing's more important than this."

Jack's expression shifted, surprise replacing wariness. "Really? You're not going to check it?"

"Really. Work can wait."

Willa was watching this exchange with focused attention, evaluating whether my actions matched my words about prioritizing family.

"Good," Jack said finally. "Because I want to see if there's a post-credits scene, and I need someone to explain all the references I missed."

"I can do that."

"And next week there's another movie I want to see. Some horror thing Willa's too scared to watch."

Willa protested immediately, throwing a piece of popcorn at him. "I'm not scared, I just have better taste than a fourteen-year-old who thinks jump scares count as filmmaking."

"Says the person who made me turn off Hereditary after twenty minutes," Jack shot back with a grin.

"That wasn't fear, that was preservation of my mental health. There's a difference."

"Sure there is. Just like there's a difference between 'I don't like horror movies' and 'I'm too scared to watch them.'"

"I hate you," Willa said, but she was laughing.

"So you'll come to that one too?" Jack asked, looking at me directly.

"Absolutely."

"Promise? Even if you get some super important dad emergency from your app?"

"I promise. Nothing is more important than being your dad."

Jack studied my face with serious teenage consideration, weighing my words against his experience of adult promises that had been broken before.

"Okay. Good."

As we walked to our cars, Willa fell into step beside me while Jack walked ahead, probably texting friends about the movie.

"He's testing you," she said quietly.

"I know."

"He's going to keep testing you for a while. Making sure you choose us when it matters."

"I understand. I want him to test me."

Willa smiled—the first completely unguarded smile she'd given me since we'd started meeting. "Good. Because he needs to know you're really back before he lets himself believe it."

"What about you? Do you believe it?"

Willa considered this seriously, her face reflecting the careful thought she brought to important questions.

"I'm starting to. Tonight helped."

"How?"

"You turned off your phone. That might seem small, but it's not. It shows you're learning to be unavailable for the right reasons."

The drive home took me past the Starbucks where Elena and I had met for months. Six months ago, I would have immediately responded to her text, eager to share in her success and maintain our professional relationship.

Tonight, I drove past without stopping.

Elena had other people in her life who could celebrate with her. My children had been waiting three years for their father to prioritize them over his professional obligations.

The choice felt both difficult and obvious.

Chapter 10: Ordinary Magic

Six months later, my Rent-a-Dad rating had stabilized at 4.6 stars. Not terrible, but no longer top-tier. Reliable Rick maintained his position as the top-rated dad, his 4.9 rating supported by consistent availability and professional dedication I no longer possessed.

The algorithm had stopped highlighting my profile. The steady stream of requests had slowed to a manageable trickle. Clients who remembered when I'd been perfectly available occasionally left reviews mentioning my decreased responsiveness.

I was no longer the best temporary father in the city.

But Thursday afternoons belonged to Willa—college planning sessions that had evolved into genuine conversations about her hopes and fears for the future. Friday evenings were movie nights with Jack, adventures in shared entertainment that reminded me why family traditions mattered.

The work was harder than any Rent-a-Dad booking I'd ever accepted. There were no clear metrics for success, no rating system, no guarantee that my children would leave positive reviews of my fathering efforts. But it was also more rewarding than any five-star rating I'd ever received.

My phone still buzzed with occasional requests from clients who remembered when I'd been perfectly available. Now I accepted the ones that fit around my permanent commitments, turning down work that conflicted with homework help or family dinners or simply being present when my children needed to know their father was there.

I was learning that being a good father wasn't about perfect performance—it was about consistent presence, even when that presence was imperfect, even when I didn't have all the answers, even when my children were testing whether I would choose them over easier alternatives.

"Dad, can you help me with this college essay?" Willa asked one Thursday, sliding her laptop across our usual table at Starbucks.

The question was casual now, natural in a way that had taken months to develop. Willa no longer introduced me as "the guy who helps with college stuff" but simply as "my dad," and the shift felt more significant than any professional achievement.

"Of course. What are you working on?"

"The personal statement for Northwestern. I'm stuck on how to end it."

I read her draft—thoughtful, authentic, completely different from the uncertain writing I'd first encountered eight months ago. Willa had found her voice, developed confidence in her ideas, learned to trust her own perspective.

"What are you trying to say in the conclusion?"

"That I'm ready for independence but also that I value connection. That I want to explore the world but also stay grounded in what matters most."

"That sounds like exactly what you should say."

"But how do I say it without being cheesy?"

We worked through the conclusion together, Willa refining her ideas while I asked questions that helped her think more clearly. This was the same skill I'd once brought to client work, but it felt different when applied to permanent rather than temporary relationships.

"You know what's funny?" Willa said as she saved the final draft. "I used to think you were naturally good at being a dad because you were professionally good at it. But I think it's the opposite."

"What do you mean?"

"I think you were professionally good at being a dad because you were naturally good at it. You just forgot how to be natural with us."

The observation was insightful in a way that reminded me of the eight-year-old who'd once asked serious questions about dinosaurs and expected serious answers.

"Maybe you're right."

"I am right. And now that you're being natural with us again, you're probably better at the professional stuff too. Because it's not performance anymore—it's just who you are."

That evening, I received a text from Jack: "Math test tomorrow. Could use a review session if you're free."

Six months ago, Jack's requests for help had been tentative, loaded with the possibility that I might choose client work over his needs. Now his messages were matter-of-fact, carrying the assumption that his father would be available when he needed support.

I drove to the house, using my key for the first time in three years. Sarah had returned it the previous month, a gesture that felt both practical and symbolic.

"Hey," Jack called from the kitchen, where he was making what appeared to be a sandwich of questionable nutritional value. "Want some food before we tackle the homework torture?"

"I'm good, thanks. Ready to review some algebra?"

"As ready as anyone can be for mathematical suffering."

Jack's room had evolved again—still chaotic in the way that teenage spaces inevitably were, but now containing evidence of our relationship. Math worksheets we'd completed together, a photo from our last movie night that Willa had insisted on taking, the dinosaur book I'd finally given him during one of our sessions.

"Okay," Jack said, settling at his desk with exaggerated drama. "Prepare to witness my mathematical incompetence."

"Prepare to witness your mathematical competence," I corrected. "You've gotten good at this stuff."

We reviewed for an hour, Jack demonstrating understanding that would have seemed impossible six months earlier. His confidence had grown along with his skills, the result of patient practice and consistent support.

"You know what's weird?" Jack said as we finished. "I actually like math now. Not love it, but it doesn't make me want to give up on life."

"That's excellent progress."

"Yeah. And it's not just because I understand it better. It's because I'm not afraid of making mistakes anymore."

The comment hit deeper than Jack probably intended. He was describing exactly what I'd learned about fatherhood—that the fear of imperfection had been more damaging than imperfection itself.

"That's a good lesson for everything, not just math."

"Yeah, I guess so." Jack looked at me directly. "You know, I'm not mad at you anymore."

The words were delivered casually, but they landed with enormous weight. I'd been waiting months for some formal declaration of forgiveness, some official end to Jack's anger.

"You're not?"

"Well, I'm still mad about some stuff. Like, I'm mad that you missed three years of my life, and I'm mad that I had to explain to my friends why my dad wasn't around." Jack's voice was matter-of-fact but honest. "But I'm not mad that you're here now. And I guess I figure being mad about the past is just going to mess up the future."

"That's very mature of you."

Jack shrugged. "Mom says holding grudges is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die. Which is gross but makes sense." He looked at me directly. "Besides, you're actually trying now. That's what matters."

"Just like that?"

"Not just like that. It took me a while to decide. But what's the point of staying mad about something that's already getting fixed?" Jack's expression grew more serious. "You're not going anywhere again, right?"

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Good. Because if you disappear again, I really will be done. Like, permanently done. No third chances."

The conversation felt like closure, like we'd turned a corner. But two weeks later, that certainty cracked.

I was running late to Jack's baseball game—caught in traffic after declining a lucrative client session that would have conflicted with the first pitch. When I finally arrived at the field, the game was in the third inning and Jack was standing in the dugout, scanning the bleachers.

His face fell when he saw me walking up, late and apologetic.

After the game, which Jack's team won 7-4, he was quiet on the walk to my car.

"Great game," I said. "That double in the fifth inning was perfect."

"You missed the first two innings."

"I know. I'm sorry. Traffic was—"

"Yeah, whatever." Jack's tone was flat, all the warmth from our recent conversations gone. "You said you'd be here for the whole game."

"I was here for most of it."

Jack stopped walking and looked at me with an expression that was equal parts hurt and anger. "Do you know what I told my teammates? I told them my dad was coming to watch me play. I pointed to the empty spot in the bleachers where you were supposed to be sitting."

The pain in his voice made my chest tighten. "Jack, I—"

"You know what's funny? For a minute there, when you didn't show up, I thought maybe you'd left again. Maybe this whole thing was just temporary and you'd decided we weren't worth the effort."

The words cut deep. I could see the fear in Jack's eyes—not just disappointment about a baseball game, but terror that his father might abandon him again.

"I would never leave again. I promised you that."

"Yeah, well, you promised you'd be here on time too." Jack opened the car door, then paused. "I know missing the first couple innings isn't the same as disappearing for three years. But it reminded me how it felt when you weren't there."

We drove home in silence, both of us recognizing that healing wasn't linear, that trust had to be rebuilt through consistency, not just good intentions.

The next week, I arrived at Jack's game thirty minutes early.

Three months later, Willa texted with news that felt like validation: "Got into Northwestern! Early admission!"

I was with a client when the message arrived—helping Tom, the divorced father from Jake's birthday party, plan another celebration. But this time, instead of ignoring my phone, I excused myself for a moment.

"Congratulations! I'm so proud of you."

"Thanks! None of this would have happened without your help."

"You always had the answers. You just needed someone who believed in you."

"Good questions, though. Want to celebrate this weekend? Family dinner?"

Family dinner. The phrase carried weight I couldn't have imagined two years earlier.

"Absolutely. Should I bring anything?"

"Just yourself, Dad. That's all we need."

That evening, after Tom's event ended successfully, I found myself reflecting on how dramatically my priorities had shifted. Six months ago, I would have stayed late to help with cleanup, eager to earn another five-star review. Tonight, I left promptly to join my family for dinner.

The work with Tom had gone well—he was more confident as a father now, his relationship with Jake stronger than it had been during those difficult early months after his divorce. But the real satisfaction came from knowing that I'd helped while maintaining clear boundaries about what mattered most in my own life.

I was still good at temporary fatherhood. But I was finally learning to be good at permanent fatherhood too.

Sarah answered the door when I arrived, her expression warmer than it had been in years.

"Congratulations, college dad," she said with genuine smile. "Willa's been bouncing off the walls all day."

"Thank you for raising such an incredible kid."

"We both did that. Even when you weren't here, you were still part of who she became."

The observation was generous in a way I didn't deserve but appreciated deeply. Sarah had every right to claim sole credit for Willa and Jack's development during my absence, but she was choosing to acknowledge the complexity of their identity formation.

Dinner was chaos in the best possible way—Willa describing her college plans with infectious enthusiasm, Jack complaining about his math teacher while simultaneously demonstrating concepts he'd once found impossible, all of us talking over each other in the way that families do when everyone feels heard.

"I want to study journalism," Willa announced between bites of pasta. "Investigative reporting, specifically. Finding stories that matter and telling them in ways that create change."

"That sounds perfect for you," I said, meaning it completely.

"I've been thinking about it since our conversations about college. You helped me understand that the stories that seem small are often the most important ones."

Jack looked up from his phone, where he'd been showing me his latest game design project. "Speaking of college, I've been thinking about that too."

"You're fourteen," Willa said with sisterly authority. "You don't need to think about college yet."

"I know, but I want to study game design and computer science. And Dad said Northwestern has a good program."

"I said they have excellent programs," I corrected. "But you should explore lots of options."

"Yeah, but maybe we could visit Willa when she's there. See what college is like."

The casual assumption that I would be part of such plans, that family trips and shared experiences were simply expected rather than negotiated, felt like the most precious gift imaginable.

"I'd love that," I said.

After dinner, as we cleaned dishes with the easy coordination of people who'd done this countless times, Willa pulled me aside.

"I want to tell you something," she said.

"What's that?"

"I've been thinking about what made you a good Rent-a-Dad, and I think I figured it out."

"I'm listening."

"You were good at it because you were good at being our dad first. All those skills—patience, listening, helping people feel heard—you learned those with us. You just forgot how to use them with us."

Willa's insight was both accurate and forgiving, reframing my professional success as an extension of parental abilities rather than a replacement for them.

"But now you remember," she continued. "And that makes you better at both things. Better at helping other people because you're connected to what matters most, and better at being our dad because you've practiced staying present even when it's hard."

That night, as I drove home to my studio apartment, I thought about Tyler's simple advice from over a year ago: "You should call them."

He'd been right, of course. Eight years old and he'd understood what it had taken me three years to learn—that love without action was just a feeling, and that the most important relationships in life required showing up even when it was uncomfortable.

My phone buzzed with a new Rent-a-Dad request—urgent booking for weekend help with a family crisis. Six months ago, I would have accepted immediately. Tonight, I checked my calendar first.

Saturday was Jack's birthday party. Not a client's son's birthday, but my son's birthday. Willa and I had been planning it for weeks—nothing elaborate, just pizza and movies and the presence of people who loved him.

I declined the booking request and typed a different kind of message: "Not available this weekend—family commitment. But I hope you find the help you need."

For the first time since joining the platform, I was choosing my children over guaranteed five-star reviews.

My rating had dropped to 4.6 stars, but my son was turning fifteen, and nothing was more important than being there to celebrate.

Some things mattered more than ratings.

Some relationships were worth being imperfect for.

And some nights, when everything was quiet and my phone was off and my calendar was arranged around people who would love me regardless of my performance, I understood that the words had finally become true: my children were lucky to have me.

Not because I was the perfect temporary father, but because I'd learned to be the imperfect permanent father they'd always needed.

But it was Jack who delivered the moment that made it all feel real.

Three days after Willa's graduation party, I was cleaning my apartment when my phone rang. Not a text—an actual phone call. Jack's name on the screen.

"Hey," he said when I answered, his voice carrying that particular teenage casualness that masked deeper feelings.

"Hey yourself. What's going on?"

"Nothing really. Just wanted to talk."

I sat down, understanding the significance of this moment. Jack had called me just to talk. Not for homework help, not because Willa had suggested it, not for any practical reason. Just because he wanted to hear my voice.

"How was school today?"

"Fine. Boring. The usual." Jack paused. "Actually, something kind of weird happened."

"What's that?"

"My friend Dylan's parents are getting divorced. He's been pretty messed up about it, and today he was asking me how I dealt with it when you and Mom split up."

I felt my chest tighten. "What did you tell him?"

"I told him it sucked. That it was really hard for a while, especially when you disappeared." Jack's voice was matter-of-fact, not accusatory. "But I also told him that sometimes people come back. That sometimes parents figure out how to be parents again, even after they screw everything up."

"That was good advice."

"Yeah, well, I had a good example." Jack was quiet for a moment. "I told him about you. About how you came back and how it's been good having you around again."

The words hit me with unexpected force. Jack was talking about me to his friends—not as the father who'd abandoned him, but as the father who'd come back. I was part of his story now in a way that mattered.

"I'm glad it's been good," I managed.

"Me too. And Dylan asked if maybe you could talk to him sometime. Like, if his dad doesn't figure things out, maybe you could help him understand how to deal with it."

The request was simple but profound. Jack was suggesting that I might help his friend navigate family crisis—not as a professional, not as Rent-a-Dad, but as Jack's father, someone who understood what it meant to lose a relationship and find it again.

"I'd be happy to talk to Dylan," I said.

"Cool. I figured you would be." Jack paused again. "Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for coming back. I know I gave you a hard time about it, but I'm glad you kept trying."

"Thank you for letting me try."

"Yeah, well, you're stuck with me now. No more disappearing."

"No more disappearing," I promised.

"Good. Because I'm thinking about applying to colleges next year, and I'm going to need help with essays and stuff. And I want it to be you helping me, not some stranger."

The casual assumption that I would be part of his future, that college planning was something we would do together, felt like the most precious gift imaginable.

"I'd love to help with college essays."

"Good. Fair warning though—I'm probably going to be worse at writing than I am at math."

"I doubt that. And even if you are, we'll figure it out together."

"Yeah," Jack said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. "We will."

After we hung up, I sat in my apartment for a long time, thinking about that phone call. Jack had called just to talk, had told his friend about me, had casually assumed I would be part of his future.

It was the kind of ordinary moment that felt extraordinary after three years of absence. The kind of connection that couldn't be rated or reviewed, that existed outside any professional framework.

It was just a son calling his father because he wanted to share his day.

And it was everything.

Epilogue: One Year Later

Elena's graduation party was exactly what you'd expect from someone who'd spent four years planning for her future—well-organized, thoughtfully planned, filled with people who genuinely cared about her success.

I hadn't seen her in months, not since she'd graduated from our regular sessions and moved on to college preparation that no longer required professional guidance. But when the invitation arrived—handwritten, personal—I'd accepted immediately.

"Miles!" Elena spotted me across the crowded backyard and waved with genuine enthusiasm. "I can't believe you came!"

She looked older, more confident, carrying herself with the particular pride of achievement. The anxious seventeen-year-old I'd first met had evolved into a young woman who knew her own mind.

"Congratulations," I said, meaning it completely. "How does it feel to be done?"

"Incredible. Terrifying. Like I can do anything and also like I have no idea what I'm doing."

"That sounds exactly right for eighteen."

Elena's father approached, extending his hand with careful courtesy—clearly he'd heard about me but we'd never actually met.

"You must be Miles," he said. "Elena's told me a lot about you. Thank you for helping her with college applications."

"She did all the work. I just asked questions."

"Good questions, apparently. She credits you with helping her find her voice as a writer."

I glanced at Elena, who was beaming—her father was finally present for an important moment.

"Your dad seems proud," I said quietly.

"He is. And he's here, which is what matters most." Elena's voice carried hard-won wisdom. "You were right about that—sometimes people just need to know that showing up is possible."

"What do you mean?"

"Remember when you asked what would happen if my dad just called? No agenda, just to hear my voice?" Elena's expression was thoughtful. "I think I mentioned that conversation to him, and he started doing exactly that. Calling just to check in, even when he couldn't visit."

"How did that go?"

"Awkward at first. But it got easier. And then he started actually visiting, even for small stuff. He came to my debate tournament last month—didn't miss it for work, just showed up."

Elena gestured toward her father, who was deep in conversation with friends, looking genuinely relaxed rather than performative.

"Turns out he was avoiding me for the same reason you were avoiding Willa and Jack. Afraid of disappointing me, so he just stayed away instead of risking imperfection."

The parallel was striking and oddly comforting. Elena's father had found his way back to fatherhood through the same realization that had transformed my own relationships—that children needed presence more than perfection.

"I'm glad he figured it out."

"Me too. And I'm glad you figured it out with your kids. Willa sounds amazing, by the way."

"You know Willa?"

Elena laughed. "We've been following each other on social media for months. She reached out after you mentioned me, said she wanted to thank me for helping you remember how to be a dad."

The idea of my children connecting with former clients felt both unexpected and perfectly natural. Elena and Willa were both thoughtful young women who'd needed patient guidance during important transitions.

"She starts Northwestern in the fall," I said.

"I know! We're planning to meet up when I visit campus for journalism camp this summer. It'll be weird—bonding over our shared experience of having you as a father figure."

The phrase hit me with sudden recognition. Elena was right—I had been a father figure to her, but not in the way I'd originally understood. I hadn't been performing fatherhood for Elena; I'd been practicing it. Learning to be patient and present and genuinely interested in someone else's thoughts and dreams.

Those skills had made me a better temporary father, but more importantly, they'd prepared me to be a better permanent father to my own children.

"Can I ask you something?" Elena said.

"Of course."

"Do you still do the Rent-a-Dad thing?"

I thought about my current schedule—maybe one or two bookings per week, carefully chosen to fit around family commitments and personal priorities.

"Some of it. But differently than before."

"How so?"

"I only take clients who really need what I can offer. And I never take work that conflicts with being available for Willa and Jack."

Elena nodded approvingly. "That seems like the right balance."

"It feels right. I learned that I'm good at helping people, but I'm only good at it when it comes from a genuine place rather than a need to prove something."

"What were you trying to prove before?"

The question was perceptive in a way that reminded me why I'd enjoyed our conversations. Elena had always been able to ask the questions that mattered most.

"That I could be the perfect father. That I could give people exactly what they needed without any of the messiness that comes with real relationships."

"But real relationships are supposed to be messy."

"Exactly. Willa and Jack don't need me to be perfect. They just need me to be present, even when I don't know what to do."

Elena's father appeared at her elbow, carrying a piece of cake and looking overwhelmed by the graduation party chaos.

"Elena, your mother wants to take more photos before people start leaving," he said.

"Okay, Dad. Give me just a minute?"

He nodded and walked away, but not before Elena called after him: "Thank you for coming today. It means everything."

Her father's face lit up with genuine joy—he knew he'd done something right.

"See?" Elena said, turning back to me. "He just needed to learn that showing up was more important than being perfect."

"Sounds familiar."

"Yeah. You both figured out the same thing—that love is an action, not just a feeling."

I thought about my calendar for the weekend. Saturday was Jack's baseball game—not a championship, just a regular season game that most parents would skip without guilt. Sunday was family dinner at Sarah's house, a tradition we'd developed over the past year that felt both new and timeless.

Two years ago, I would have used weekends to catch up on client work, accepting bookings that boosted my rating and filled my schedule with the satisfied feeling of professional productivity.

Now my weekends were reserved for the ordinary magic of family life—watching Jack play baseball, helping Willa pack for college, sitting around Sarah's dining table arguing about movies and politics and whether Jack was old enough to drive.

"I should probably let you get back to your party," I said.

"Thanks for coming. Seriously. It means a lot that you're here."

"Thank you for inviting me. And congratulations again—you're going to do amazing things."

Elena hugged me with easy affection—she'd learned to trust her own judgment about which adults deserved her attention.

As I walked back to my car, my phone buzzed with a text from Jack: "Game starts at 2:00 tomorrow. You're still coming, right?"

I typed back immediately: "Wouldn't miss it."

"Good. Mom's bringing snacks and Willa's bringing her camera because she says I need 'documentation of my athletic prowess.'"

I laughed out loud, imagining Willa's sisterly determination to embarrass Jack while simultaneously supporting him.

"Sounds perfect. See you tomorrow."

"Thanks, Dad."

Dad. Two years later, the word still hit me with gratitude and wonder. Not because I'd earned it through perfect performance, but because I'd learned to accept it through imperfect presence.

The drive home took me past the Starbucks where Elena and I had met for months, where Willa and I still gathered every Thursday, where I'd learned the difference between professional competence and personal connection.

My phone buzzed with a Rent-a-Dad booking request—weekend help with a graduation party. The kind of event I'd once handled with professional efficiency, providing reliable support while maintaining careful emotional distance.

I glanced at the message, then deleted it without responding. Reliable Rick could have the top spot—I had my son's baseball game.

Tomorrow was Jack's baseball game. Sunday was family dinner. And Monday was Willa's last day of high school, a milestone I'd been looking forward to witnessing for months.

Some weekends were too important for ratings.

Some moments were too precious for performance.

And some nights, when everything was quiet and my calendar was arranged around people who loved me regardless of my competence, I understood that the most important job I'd ever had was the one that came without reviews.

I was Willa and Jack's father. Not perfect, but present. Not rated, but reliable. Not performing, but participating in the ordinary miracle of family life.

And for the first time in three years, that felt like enough.