One Man and a Baby

“I have to go potty!” Four-year –old Andrea announces this to everyone in line with us at the bookstore.
“Can you hold it? Please?” I ask.
“No, Daddy,” she says, clutching herself. So we head to the bathroom-the mall bathroom. The one that says Women.
Andrea looks up at me expectantly. “C’mon, Daddy.” (***come on, daddy.)
“I can’t go in there. It’s for girls. Can you be a big girl and go in by yourself?” I ask her.
She squints at me for a moment. “Okay!” she says, and marches over to the door, which is too heavy for her to open.
I push the door open for her. “You’ll be okay,” I say. “If anything happens, just scream. I’ll be right here.”
Two minutes pass. Three minutes. Four minutes…
Andrea’s mother and I met and fell in love at band camp when I was fourteen and she was thirteen. We were together all through high school.
When I was a senior and Michelle was a junior, she became pregnant with our daughter Andrea. We got married the day after my graduation from high school, when Andrea was two months old. For the next two years, we lived in a government-subsidized housing complex. I worked nearly every night delivering pizzas, and Michelle stayed home with Andrea.
I don’t remember when the arguing started. I don’t know when our house drained of color and even Andrea’s face turned sour. Michelle was sick of me, the apartment, her life. I told her I wanted Andrea to live with me. The next day Michelle was gone.
When Andrea realized that her mom wasn’t coming back, she started crying. I tried to console her, but she pushed me away. For hours, she huddled near her dresser, whimpering like a frightened animal.
Within a few weeks, we’d started adjusting to life without Michelle. We fell into a routing. While Andrea stayed home with a baby-sitter, I delivered pizzas until after midnight, came home and passed out. As soon as the sun hit her window, Andrea faithfully waddled in and woke me up. Then we’d stumble downstairs, and I’d dump out some dry cereal and fall back asleep on the couch with the TV blaring,. At four o’clock, the baby-sitter would arrive again and I’d leave. I’d tell people I was a single father and make myself sound like a martyr. But really, it surprised me how easy it all was. Just put on Sesame street, heat up some canned pasta and away you go.
Andrea was almost four when the truth hit me. We were brushing our teeth together-toothpaste foam was dribbling off my toothbrush, onto my hand and down my arm. I saw Andrea in the mirror, gawking at me. “You’re messy!” she said, and her words shook my heart.
“You’re right,” I said, reaching for a towel. “Daddy needs to clean himself up.” I realized then that she would be learning everything from me-how to brush her teeth, how to dress, how to treat other people.
The next day, after a night of self-examination, I woke Andrea up, and we helped each other make the beds. Then I took a shower, got dressed and washed all the dishes. I flung the drapes apart and sunlight poured in.
That morning was a year ago. Andrea and I have moved into a house, and I’ve got a nine-to-five sales job. At last, I feel as if I’m on the right track-as a father and as a person.
Andrea’s been in the bathroom five minutes when the door wobbles, pulls open an inch, and then falls shut. I step over and swing it open. Smiling proudly, she marches out. I gather her into my arms. “Daddy,” she says. “We did it!”
“Yeah,” I say, patting her back. “We did.”


Adapted from Chicken Soup for the Single's Soul.
I feel sorry that I have no time to translate it into Chinese. But,in my opinion, there is no difficulty for the people here.