When We Met - Shey Stahl

BARRON

“Daddy!”

I couldn’t wait for my kids to say “Daddy.” Now it comes with a “what the fuck now?” thought every time. If you’re a parent, you get it. If not, and you’re thinking of becoming a parent, someday you’re gonna get what I’m saying.

Running my hand over my face, I roll over in bed for the third time tonight. “Jesus Christ,” I mumble unintelligently, stumbling from my very comfortable bed I’ve yet to sleep soundly in the last three years. At what age do kids sleep through the night? I’m fucking serious here. I’m honestly asking because mine are three and five, and I don’t think I’ve slept soundly since they were born.

Welcome to being a dad.

Boys, listen up. I’m gonna give you a piece of free advice here. Think about these things before you have sex. If you value your sleep, stick to your goddamn hand. At least it’s loyal.

That’s not an exaggeration from a whiny man with a cold, which I have, thinking it’s the end of the world. This is done by a twenty-four-year-old single dad who works both a ranch and a repair shop and averages four hours of sleep a night. To add to the warning, among my superhero abilities, I can recite every line to most Taylor Swift songs (sadly, I’ve learned to enjoy her music), watch Hotel Transylvania at least once a week, and put together a pretty decent ponytail while my three-year-old screams bloody murder because “I’m killing her.”

“Daddy!” Another scream shrieks through the house.

Groaning, I run my hands over my face and swing my legs around over the bed. “I’m coming!” I pull on a pair of sweatpants and lift my sore body from my bed. My feet hit the cold wood floors that creak when I stand. I stare down, giving the bed a longing look before I reach for the door handle.

If you’re thinking, awe, his daughter is having a bad dream and needs him. Ha. I wish. Just wait. Around the corner from my bedroom in our very small home is my daughter’s room. I have two kids. And because apparently, God has a sense of humor, they are both girls. In case you’re doing the math on this one, that equals screwed. Lucky for me, I have guns. And I plan to use them on any boy who asks them to “meet me in the barn.”

Believe me. I’m overprotective, hard-headed, and think meat and potatoes should be dinner every night. I also hate vegetables. Of any kind. In case you’re wondering.

None of that matters because it’s the middle of the night, and I don’t want to be up. I want to be sleeping. Sadly, that’s probably not happening the rest of the night. And I’ll tell you why. It starts when I walk into the room next to mine.

Amongst a blanket fort, an overly thick rug I think was made from horsehair, sadly, Sevyn, the one screaming for me, is wearing a look of utter fear. “Help me!”

Sev, she’s the youngest and the most mischievous. She can tell you to fuck off with a bunch of her brows, and the next, she’s warming your heart with bright eyes and a cute pout. She’s also impulsive, sneaky, messy, spills everything, and is obsessed with Halloween and all things creepy. I don’t mean she wants to dress up like a princess and go door to door to get candy. What I mean is there’s a chance she might be the devil with blonde curls, and I fear she’s going to be the weird kid who wears black lipstick and heavy eyeliner you’re afraid to talk to. Have you seen that movie The Craft? I think my kid is one of those troubled teenagers trapped in a three-year-old’s body.

Because of her obsession with all things spooky, you would think not much could shake her. Unfortunately for me, that’s not completely true. Spiders? Sev loves them. Thinks they’re pets. Snakes? Chases them and wants to be friends. Anything that crawls, flies, slithers, or wiggles, she’s cool with.

What she hates?

Being trapped. She’s incredibly claustrophobic. Being swaddled as an infant, straight-up torture chamber for this kid. She’d cry harder. Which brings me to the scene inside her room.

I move the blanket covering the ceiling light to the side. “What’s wrong?”

When she spots me in the soft pink glow of their twinkle lights hanging on the ceiling under the blanket, her eyes frantic. Never mind the fire hazard here. Kids don’t think about that shit,