“Drive By,” a story about a father struggling with his daughter’s birthday during the pandemic, is now available for you to enjoy at Podbean.com. Click HERE to listen.
I stand by the window, looking out, watching my daughter play in the front yard.
My heart fills with dread.
They should be here any minute.
Should being the operative word.
Will they come?
Why should they?
I’m amazed how everyone seems to know everyone—everyone but me. How do they all know each other? Our kids are in third grade. When I was a kid, if my classmates didn’t live in the neighborhood, my parents didn’t know their parents at all.
I seem to be the only one upholding that tradition. How would I even begin to meet the other kids’ parents? PTO? Sports?
I honestly have no idea.
I don’t want my daughter to pay for my ignorance. She’s going to be the outcast. The weirdo. The kid with the dad who’s clueless about throwing birthday parties under ordinary circumstances. But during a pandemic? Hopeless.
When the mom emailed, my instinct said not to trust her.
She wanted to organize a birthday parade for my daughter. She said my daughter’s teacher asked her to do it, which is also how she got my email address. She said she’d be happy to lend a hand—I just needed to make sure my daughter hung out in the front yard at a certain time. She included her phone number and asked me to call.
It wasn’t bad, but it was awful.
Against my better judgement, I agreed to it. I asked if I could assist, and—to my relief—she said not to worry about a thing.
She doesn’t know me. I’m not even sure she knows my daughter. She owes me nothing—no favors, no kindness, no mercy. Yet, she supposedly got in touch with all the kids’ families and set up a parade.
But what if she didn’t? What if she changed her mind? What if she got busy with her actual friends or her real commitments?
I’m expected to trust her without knowing her.
Maybe I should have just thrown a party. Screw it. Get the bouncy house. Hire the clown. Order pizza. Invite the entire third grade to our backyard. Pandemic be damned.
I couldn’t bring myself to do that. It would have been hard when things were normal—but I would have done it. I keep telling myself I would have bitten the bullet and hosted a party.
But now? I can’t bring myself to take that risk. No matter how unlikely, I can’t jeopardize my daughter’s health.
The neighborhood thinks I’m a freak for taking this so seriously. My daughter will likely be ostracized for the rest of her school years because of me. She’ll be the kid with the nutty dad. The house nobody wants to come visit. She won’t be invited places because no one will want to deal with me.
What they must think—all those normal parents. I can’t even organize a birthday parade on my own.
What’s wrong with me?
I watch my daughter.
She’s the only bright spot in my life. The only thing I got right. I’m doing the best I can, but I’m not equipped for parenthood. It doesn’t come naturally. I never expected to be doing it alone.
I watch her.
My heart is full of joy, fear, confusion, love, anxiety, and happiness all at once.
Tears zigzag down my face.
For the longest time, nothing happens but the hitch of my chest.
And then I hear it—a blaring of horns. I see my daughter begin to jump up and down, waving her arms. Cars and minivans appear. Most have balloons attached. Some even have her name written on the sides, wishing her a happy birthday.
She looks at me through the window, gestures for me to come outside, and then goes back to jumping for joy.
I wipe off the tears, walk to the front door, and reach for the knob.
Copyright © 2020 by Scott William Foley
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this story may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews or articles.