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The second we found out we were having Colton, though, I was all in.
I have been ever since.
I knew playtime was over. I needed to man the fuck up and be the kind of dad who has his shit together to give his son the best crack at life possible, and I’ve been busting ass to make that happen.
I’m still keeping that promise, I think, even if it’s won me a lot of grief and a few grey hairs.
Long hours at the company, building up a money machine and a legacy that will unlock his dreams? Check.
The best education money can buy in the Kansas City metro? Check.
Parent-teacher meetings, homework help, extra classes, taking trips out to feed his curiosities? Fucking check.
When he was really little, every time I wasn’t at the office, I was with him.
Free time? I forgot the meaning of the word.
Back then, I remember thinking it might get easier one day. When he was older, more mature, maybe I could finally have a break. He’d grow into himself by his teens and be more independent. More responsible. Less clueless, especially with how smart he is.
Ha.
Turns out, I’m the guy with clueless stamped on his forehead.
And it’s theone nightthis week when I thought I’d get a quiet evening at home to crack open a thick porter and spend the evening scouting Higher Ends’ next acquisition in the crowded luxury rental space we’ve muscled our way into.
Then life happened.
My boy reminds me you don’t get to sleep on being dad.
I grit my teeth as I narrow my eyes at the road.
I’m not pissed that he showed up at our newest property and set off a few fireworks, though I’ll still ground him for a week just for that.
The worst part is, Colton fucking lied to me.
He said he was hanging out at his friend’s house to work on a chemistry project tonight.
It was believable when he’s become part mad scientist, already doing college work well beyond his grade level in math and science.
Fireworks aren’t chemistry.
And fuck, I’d really gotten into figuring out where we can expand this glamping line—its success has triggered a whole new direction for our company if we want to invest more. I’ve mapped out some new land we could build on, thinking about our branding, and I was about to crack open my beer when the assistant called.
A reported break-in at our premier cabin, Solitude.
And the intruder is my own son.
Quiet evening, obliterated.
All I could do was be happy I hadn’t started drinking because now I’ve got to personally haul ass up there and handle this myself. No way can I hand something like this off to an employee.
My own flesh and blood did this, and then he bullshitted me right to my face.
If the boy wants fireworks, he’s about to get them.
My nostrils flare as I squeeze the wheel, wanting to get this whole episode over and done.
The sooner I can chew him out, the faster I might figure out where the hell this whole escapade went wrong. Every father expects a little teenage rebellion, sure, but you never expecthowyour half-grown kid decides to kick you in the nads.