I never anticipated becoming a single father, but life does not always seek permission before transforming you. When Emma’s mom packed a bag and departed with a hazy promise of “space,” I was left with a three-year-old who needed braids, bedtime tales, and a father who could be both an anchor and a place to stay.
Despite my parents’ best efforts to assist, by Thanksgiving that year, I was so exhausted that I felt as though I had become accustomed to my new role. Still, the drive to their house was serene. It was the first snow of the season, Emma’s off-key holiday songs, and the kind of stillness you don’t realize you lack until you discover it. Then we saw an old couple shivering next to a broken-down vehicle that was stuck on the side of the road with a tire as flat as the sky in winter.
It felt natural to help them. I told Emma to stay buckled, then I went outside into the cold and knelt down next to a wheel that hadn’t moved in decades. The couple said they were sorry with chattering teeth since they were embarrassed because they had been waiting for almost an hour without success. Their relief when the spare eventually came on was warmer than my jacket.
I felt it was nothing—a modest act of compassion on a long road. A week later, my mom called and yelled at me to turn on the TV. There they were again, talking to a local news station about “the young father and his little girl who saved our Thanksgiving.”
They also showed a video that Margaret had covertly filmed of me fighting with the frozen lug nuts, with snow blowing around like in a movie. Margaret gazed into the camera and begged me to call them when the anchor asked what they would tell their “Superman.”
When I eventually called them, they invited Emma and me to supper. Their house was warm and smelled like cinnamon, and it was full of the stuff that comes with a busy existence. Their granddaughter, Angie, a writer with gentle eyes and flour on her jumper, came out of the kitchen.
It felt like we had known each other for years while we talked. Emma loved her right away, and halfway through dessert, I knew that I hadn’t been invited merely to say thank you; I had been set up. But it didn’t feel like it was forced. It felt right. Normal. Fate disguised itself as a flat tire and two grandparents who wouldn’t give up.
Angie and I are getting married in the spring two years from now. Emma calls her “my almost-mom” and twirls like a flower girl in the corridor. My folks remark that getting Angie seems like getting another daughter, and I can’t disagree with them.
I sometimes remember back to that cold afternoon on the highway when I almost drove past the moment that would change everything. I quit because it was the correct thing to do. I had no notion that it would be the start of our new existence. This has been the most beneficial turn of events in my life.
