Stuck With the Grumpy Single Dad

12. Chapter Eleven Matt

Chapter Eleven: Matt

E arly Saturday evening, I go for a peaceful stroll down the driveway to check the mail.

Since it’s the weekend, the construction team I hired isn’t here, so I spent most of today teaching the girls how to strip wallpaper from the walls in the small ballroom on the ground floor of the manor. When I suggested it as a fun activity, I expected them to wrinkle their noses and ask to go to the beach instead, but they surprised me by being extremely enthusiastic about the tedious task.

It’s nice that the girls are excited about renovating the house. They really want to be involved in it, and I’m happy to teach them useful skills involved in home maintenance. Of course, when they grow up and own their own homes, they could just hire someone to fix something when it breaks, but it’s good to know how to do things by yourself. I’ve always believed that.

I made it fun for them, too. They played their pop music nice and loud, but I’ve learned over the years not to mind it too much. In between competitions to see who could tear off the longest continuous piece of outdated floral wallpaper, the girls performed dances for me that they learned from TikTok. For the first time in a long while, I found myself relaxing fully into the moment. Plus, I’m pretty sure I’ve smiled more today than I have in ages.

It’s been a good day.

Despite that, I’ve been feeling a little unsettled. It’s been two days since my confrontation with Mabel, and I haven’t been able to shake off the guilt that’s been crawling up and down my spine.

What you witnessed was my coping mechanism, not the truth…

I made a mistake. I overheard something that I wasn’t supposed to and then made an assumption—several assumptions, if I’m being honest—that caused me to judge a stranger a little too harshly.

But what was I supposed to think? That guy in the kitchen said she hates kids and then she laughed about it. You can’t tell me that any loving parent would hear someone say that and then not feel a little uncomfortable about it.

And anyway, it’s not like I’m her biggest fan outside of this. She may not secretly hate my daughters, but she’s still annoying. All that sugary-sweet charm and forced friendliness. She can’t honestly think that I believe she treats everyone that way, can she? I know she’s just being nice to me because she’s nosy.

Despite that, I do feel bad for misunderstanding her. I’m not usually the type of person who makes snap judgments like that.

When Mabel told me she can’t have children, there was so much pain in her eyes. I don’t know from experience, but it’s easy to imagine how heartbreaking it is for someone who wants to be a parent to learn that it won’t be possible. It’s more common than anyone realizes. A lot of people, both men and women, have trouble with fertility. Creating life can be a complex thing .

Just because the twins were a complete surprise to me and Lindsay doesn’t mean that I don’t sympathize with those who try for years, often with no success. It doesn’t mean that I don’t have any compassion for people who will never get the chance to try in the first place.

I know that Maple Leaf was devastated when she discovered that pregnancy wasn’t a possibility for her. It was one of the many times when all I wanted to do was drive down here and give her a hug.

Not that I know where her house is. Not that I even know what her real name is, or what she looks like.

When I finally make it to the mailbox, I’m not surprised to discover there isn’t a whole lot in there. Just a generic town newsletter, a sheet of coupons for a local Thai restaurant, and a letter addressed by hand. The latter has a red stamp on it, indicating that it’s been forwarded to me from my old address up in Maine.

“Well, speak of the devil,” I mutter under my breath.

I wander back through the gates of the property, staring down at the letter.

When I wrote that last letter to Maple, I was barely thinking straight. My mind had been reeling from the intense changes that were thrown at me out of the blue. All I could think was I have to tell her and yet I didn’t really manage to tell her much of anything at all. I can’t even remember what I wrote, exactly.

But I do know that I haven’t yet told her that I’m literally living in her hometown now. I really should do that as soon as possible. The longer I wait, the weirder it’ll be.

As in, Yes, hi, Leafy. Merry Christmas. By the way, I’ve been living down the road from you for five months now. At least, I’m assuming so. I don’t actually know where you live. Where DO you live, by the way?

I shake my head at myself. No, I definitely need to tell her.

It’s just… I na?vely thought that maybe I’d be walking down Main Street, see a young woman, and immediately know that it’s her. We’ve been writing to each other for twenty years, after all. I feel like I should be able to pick her out from a crowd without any trouble.

And it’s strange, since I don’t even know what she looks like, but I have a feeling that she’s beautiful. I’ve always thought that if I ever decided to move on and find a new love one day, it would be with someone like her. Someone funny and kind and selfless. Someone who always looks on the bright side of life, who isn’t afraid to tease me relentlessly, who adores the girls like they’re her own family.

Maybe it’s true that deep down, I’ve been entertaining this fantasy that me and Maple Leaf are meant to be. That once I see her with my own eyes, I’ll fall in love instantly and our happily ever after will be right around the corner.

It’s a childish fantasy, obviously. That’s not how love works.

And, for all I know, Maple might take one look at me and decide that I’m not her type. Or she might have feelings for someone else—someone she’s never bothered to mention in one of her letters. After all, I know a lot about her, but I don’t know everything.

I carefully rip open the envelope and pull out Maple’s letter. It’s short and sweet, but it makes me laugh. Understandably, my last letter has seriously confused her. I don’t blame her.

How do I tell her everything that’s happened, though?

Maybe I shouldn’t bother trying to explain it all in a single letter. Maybe I should just respond to this one by asking her to meet me in person. Then, I can explain it face-to-face.

The thought of finally knowing her name, knowing what she looks like, makes my stomach flip. There’s something terrifying about losing the comfortable mystique of somewhat anonymous pen pals. It’s easier to be vulnerable with someone when you’re not speaking directly to them, and when they’re a person who lives hundreds of miles away.

As I make my way back to the cottage, where I can hear the girls singing at the top of their lungs in the kitchen, I find myself thinking about Lindsay.

My relationship with Ava and Mia’s mother wasn’t perfect. We dated when we were in high school, broke up when she went away for college and I took the townie path, and then found each other again a couple years later. Throughout that time, we bickered often about things like career paths, future plans, and money. Always money, money, money.

Lindsay also often complained that I didn’t talk about my feelings enough. That she never knew what I was thinking or feeling because I was so good at hiding it. It’s hard, though. Emotional vulnerability doesn’t come naturally to me. I had the kind of father who used to make fun of me if I dared get teary-eyed about something. And after he died, getting too caught up in my emotions would’ve just put more stress on my mom. So, I learned to bottle it up.

I tried to talk to Lindsay about these things, but I only ever managed to scratch the surface. It was always so much easier to write them out on paper and send it out in the mail to a faceless, nameless person two states away.

Back then, when I was with Lindsay, I only ever thought of Maple Leaf as a distant friend. I never even considered the possibility that she could be more than that to me. It wasn’t like that. In fact, our correspondence started specifically because she had feelings for someone else.

I was a widower for years before I realized that the attachment and fondness I was feeling for my pen pal might be something more. Except even then—and even now, too—I’m cautious about those feelings. There is so much that I still don’t know about her, and there is still so much that she doesn’t know about me.

When I step inside the house, all thoughts of letters and feelings fade away at the chaos I see before me.

Ava and Mia stand at the kitchen island, grinning somewhat deviously at each other. There’s a mountain of flour between them—about half the bag that I picked up for them at the grocery store yesterday. There’s also a carton of eggs, some salt, and a basic chopping knife.

“What exactly is going on in here?”

In unison, the girls turn to smile at me.

“We’re making tortellini!” Mia announces.

“No, we’re making ravioli. Because it’s easier.”

Mia pouts. “It’s not easier.”

“The shape is easier to make, I mean.”

“I want to make torto—torta—”

Ava scoffs. “See? You can’t even say it right. How do you expect to make it the right shape?”

“Um, because I actually paid attention when Gigi was explaining?”

“I was paying attention, too!”

“Girls,” I cut in. “We really don’t need to make anything. I can order something for dinner.”

“No!” they exclaim at the same time.

I hold up my hands in surrender. “Alright, then. How about Mia makes tortellini and Ava makes ravioli? I’m sure the cooking process can’t be that different.”

Both of my daughters look at me like I’ve just suggested they fish for our dinner in the sea with their bare hands.

“Or not,” I sigh, dropping the mail on the table and moving closer to what is about to become a disaster scene .

“What do you feel like eating tonight, Dad?” Ava asks. “Tortellini or ravioli?”

“Don’t ask him,” Mia cuts in. “He doesn’t even like pasta.”

“Then why are we even making it for him?”

“Because it’s the only thing we know how to make. Duh. ”

Part of me thinks that I should probably discourage all of this bickering, but I’ve learned that this is what it’s like to have twins. In an hour, they’ll be giggling and braiding each other’s hair again, I’m sure of it.

I clear my throat. “How about you girls teach me how to make the dough first, and then we can decide what exactly to do with it?”

Ava gapes at me. “So, we’re just supposed to dive right into cooking a meal without a plan ? Dad, have you lost your mind?”

Mia giggles. “It’s fine, Ava. Let’s just make ravioli. Dad looks too confused to handle anything more complicated than that.”

I roll my eyes playfully. I don’t mind the teasing. I once read somewhere that it’s a good thing when your kids feel comfortable enough with you to poke fun. The last thing I want is to be the kind of father who snarls and snaps at his kids when they make a harmless joke at my expense. That was the sort of thing I never dared to do when I was a kid, and it was one of the many things that made me feel alienated from my father.

Ava pats the stool next to her. “Look, Dad. Come here. You have to pay attention. Not that we expect you to be able to replicate this, but we want to try to teach you anyway.”

“You girls know I’m no good at cooking, though.”

Mia shakes her head. “Gigi says there’s no such thing as being bad at cooking. There’s just inexperience and… and something else.”

“Disinterest, I think she said.” Ava shrugs.

“Alright, then. I’m listening,” I reply.

“So, we need to make a well in the mountain of flour,” Mia begins, using her hands to shape the flour into more of a bowl shape. “And then we have to crack the eggs into the middle of it.”

“Just the egg yolks, Mia,” Ava corrects her.

“No, the whole egg.”

“It’s just the yolk! I remember!”

“Well, then what are we supposed to do with the whites? That makes no sense!”

I clear my throat again, loud enough to interrupt them. “Why don’t we just Google it?”

They both scoff at me.

“That’s not how you make authentic cuisine, Dad,” Ava chastises me.

“Actually, I think it’s exactly how we can ensure that this cuisine is authentic,” I counter.

“Listen, Ava,” Mia says, ignoring me. “I know it’s the whole egg. I just know it. Because if it wasn’t, then I would remember having to separate them and that’s really disgusting to do, but we didn’t do it, so we don’t just use the yolks. Make sense?”

I blink in confusion, both surprised and impressed by how much the girls were invested in their cooking lesson a few days ago. I had no idea they were interested in this sort of thing.

And even though we have plenty of money in the bank now, I have to admit that it’s a little frustrating to see just how much of a roadblock not having enough money really is. Before I inherited this property, it was the norm. I knew things were tight and that they’d probably always be tight, and that’s just the way it would be. Now, I have a completely different lifestyle to compare it to. I’m experiencing firsthand how money actually can buy happiness. Or, at the very least, the sort of life that makes happiness more easily attained .

“Mia, I think we did something wrong…”

Indeed, when I lean in and get a good look at the lumpy monstrosity in front of the twins, I’m almost certain that’s not what pasta dough is supposed to look like.

Mia purses her lips thoughtfully. “Maybe we need to add another egg?”

“Or maybe we should just knead it some more?”

“Yeah, let’s try that.”

I sit back and let the girls work through their problem-solving process.

Would this have been the sort of thing that Lindsay would’ve helped them with? My late wife was even less enthusiastic about cooking than I was, but maybe she would have learned for our daughters’ sake. Maybe I’m doing this all wrong. Maybe I’m not raising them the way she would’ve liked to.

Maybe I’m a complete and total failure.

While the girls bicker, a familiar voice of reason in the back of my mind speaks up.

Or maybe you’re doing the best you can, is what Maple would say to me if I expressed these thoughts to her. You’re not perfect, Cal, but even I can tell that you’re an amazing father.

At first, I always thought she was saying all those nice things just to make me feel better. That she didn’t really believe them, because how could she, since she didn’t really know me? That she was just consoling me, flattering me. After a while, though, I came to realize that she was being genuine. She really means what she says. Or rather, what she writes .

Maple Leaf doesn’t mince words. She tells the truth, whether it’s good or bad.

Will she be angry at me when she finds out that Cal isn’t my real name? That I made a random decision when I was fifteen to use my middle name, Callum, when I wrote back to her? After all, she’s technically never lied to me about her name. We both know that Maple Leaf is just a nickname that a childhood friend gave to her. She probably hasn’t bothered to give me her real name because the fact of the matter is that I’ve never asked.

She doesn’t seem like the sort of person who gets angry easily, but what do I know?

“Hello? Earth to Dad?”

I shake my head to clear my thoughts. “Hm?”

Mia presents a lumpy ball of dough in her hands that is somehow both disturbingly dry and suspiciously gooey.

“I think we failed,” she tells me.

Ava snorts. “Yeah. We’re failures.”

“Well, hey. Failing isn’t a bad thing. It’s just a learning experience, a chance to—”

“Blah, blah, blah,” groans Mia. “We know. And we’ll totally try again another time, but for tonight can we just order pizza?”

She drops the oozing dough onto the counter. Ava pokes it, her nose wrinkling in disgust.

“Pizza?” I ask. “Again?”

“We can ask them to put a bunch of veggies on it,” Ava suggests.

“Yeah! That’s, like, all the food groups in one bite.”

I let out a long sigh, but reach for my phone anyway so that I can call the local pizza shop.

Maybe I should ask Gigi Lee if she has any cooking classes for adults.