You Say I’m Not Your Dad? Then Let’s Discuss What I Actually Am

Understanding didn’t make the ache any smaller. I slept maybe two hours.

The next morning I slipped out early. No pancakes. No door goodbyes. For a few days we drifted like strangers.

Then the school called. Missed homework. Dropping grades. Two skipped classes. Not like her at all. Claire looked a mix of angry and scared.

I left a sticky note on her door: “Want to talk? No lectures. Just listening.”

An hour later, she appeared in my office doorway, arms crossed, chin up, eyes wary.

“I’m failing chemistry,” she said. “And I hate it. And I don’t care.”

“Okay,” I said.

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