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“Can I shave my head?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Okay.” She goes quiet for one blissful second and then starts again. “I got a dollar for sweeping up the hair on the floor.”
My eyebrows hover low. I whip around. “Island had you sweeping?”
“I asked if I could,” Regan says.
I’m not sure I like that. I didn’t leave Regan at Island’s salon so my kid could do manual labor.
Is Island working Regan to get back at me?
I mull it over and feel a flash of agitation at the thought.
Then I shake my head.
I reviewed some of the footage of Regan while she was at Island’s salon yesterday.
After skimming through the video, I was satisfied with the level of attention and care offered to Regan—not only by Island, but by all the women in the salon.
Miss Hayes might have her issues with me, but she genuinely cares for my daughter. And I picked that up a long time ago.
If I believed Island was a vindictive person, I wouldn’t have gone to the lengths I did to secure her help.
She’s also professionally capable. Her background check was pristine and she had prior experience working at a day care while attending college.
Not that either of those things qualify a person, as I’ve learned the hard way.
I take a long look at Regan’s beaming face. All that matters is Regan’s happiness and if there was a dial to gauge where she’s at, I’d say my daughter is about a hundred and twenty.
She was never this enthusiastic about any of the other nannies. And especially not the last one. It feels good to see her so animated. This is the bubbly, excitable, fearless Regan that I know and love. The shy and quick-to-tears Regan that emerged when Anya passed seems to be fading.
In the middle of my daughter’s chatter, I pick her up and take her out of the room. On the way, I pass Abe’s door. He has a big ‘keep out’ sign plastered on it. I hate that thing with every breath, but his therapist cautioned me against ‘infringing on my son’s private grieving space’. Whatever the hell that meant.
I grew up believing that feelings and emotions were the fuel that pushed a man to better himself in all areas—physically, emotionally, mentally.
Want to cry? Run a lap.
Still want to cry? Run another lap.
Run until whatever’s bothering you is all the way in the rear view mirror.
Doesn’t have to be running. Swap it out for any physical activity and you have the recipe for a man being a man.
I took that mentality with me into the battlefield. Soldiers can’t be emotional. Not when a decision on the ground may mean life or death.
An overly sensitive commander can risk his team’s well-being and cost families their sons and daughters.
Just as an overly-committed soldier can sacrifice herself and never come home.
A lump forms in my throat. The burning is familiar.
Calculated risks. Collateral damage. People throw those words around, but how many of them live with the consequences? How many of them close their eyes and see the bloodshed? Hear the cries of the wounded? Taste someone’s fear as they spit bullets out of their guts, eyes glazing over as they realize too late that war is nobody’s fantasy? How many of them roll over in the night only to feel the person they love isn’t there and will never be again?
The real world is just a more polite version of war, and I want my kids to be strong enough to survive. I want to teach them and train them the way I did when I was in the military and even the way I do now at the company.
But I can’t.