Pretend You're Mine!

Dr. Ethan Harrington stood just inside the kindergarten classroom doorway, shoulders squared in the crisp navy suit that felt as much armor as attire. The tiny chairs were arranged in neat semicircles, each painted a different pastel hue, waiting for the new students to settle in. Family photos—those little Polaroids clipped to a string—dotted the corkboard behind him, each capturing moments of first-day smiles and bright eyes. He smoothed a hand down the lapel of his jacket, suppressing the flutter in his chest. His daughter Sophie had already found her place. At five years old, she bore a confidence that surprised him, clutching her stuffed rabbit, Honey, in one small fist while her other hand clutched his. Her curly blond hair caught the morning light, haloed like a tiny sun. His heart swelled and clenched at once. “Daddy?” she whispered, her blue eyes wide. “Where’s Mommy?” He inhaled—carefully, controlled. The question, innocent as it sounded, was loaded with years of hurt. He knelt, resting his palms on her knees. “Sophie, honey…Mommy’s…she can’t be here today.” He kept his voice light but steady. “But I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” She nodded, as though understanding. And in that moment, Ethan vowed she never would be alone again. Miss Chen, the kindergarten teacher, stood near the colorful carpet at the room’s center. Her warm smile and red-framed glasses gave her an approachable air. “Good morning, Mr. Harrington! Sophie—welcome! We’re about to start the circle time.” Sophie released his hand and scampered forward, settling into a tiny chair. Ethan lingered in the back, arms crossed, as a half-dozen other parents found their seats. Cameras clicked. Whispers passed from mother to mother: “Oh, how lovely. We haven’t met Sophie’s mom yet.” Ethan forced a polite nod each time, his jaw tightening. Miss Chen rang a small brass bell. “Alright, children, let’s talk about our families!” Sophie’s classmates eagerly held up pictures—Mom, Dad, Grandma, Grandpa. Each image prompted chatter about pancake breakfasts, game nights, and bedtime stories. When Sophie’s turn came, she stood, holding up her single photograph: her father’s broad-shouldered silhouette guiding her hand-in-hand. A hush held the room. Ethan felt the warmth drain from his face. One mother coughed, politely. Another tapped her lip—unsure. Sophie’s voice wavered. “I…my mommy isn’t here anymore.” Sophie’s vulnerability stung him more than any insult. The other children leaned back, confused by the absent figure. The parents exchanged sideways looks—some sympathetic, others judgmental. Ethan strode forward, swallowing the knot in his throat. “Sophie, sweetheart,” he said softly, kneeling beside her. “Your mom…she had to work in another city today. But she loves you very much.” He plastered on a smile, hoping to anchor Sophie’s trembling heart. Then he turned to the room. “We’ll talk about families again another day. For now, how about we sing our welcome song?” Miss Chen gently intervened, leading the children in a cheerful ditty about friendship and sharing. Ethan closed his eyes, the melody washing over him, but it couldn’t chase away the ache. When the song ended, polite applause rippled through the room. Sophie sat back down, hugging Honey tight. After circle time, the other parents gathered near the door with compliments and small smiles. Ethan shouldered Sophie’s backpack and guided her toward him. “You did great, Sophie.” He lifted her for a hug. A mother beside them murmured, “I’m so sorry, Ethan. If you need anything—” She offered a sympathetic tilt of her head. He paused, feeling the weight of her gaze. “Thank you,” he said. “I appreciate that.” Inside, he resolved not to let compassion become pity. He would solve this. Outside, the Florida breeze drifted through the schoolyard, carrying the excited squeals of children. He buckled Sophie into her booster seat, tucking Honey between her arms. She gazed up at him with those trusting eyes. “Daddy,” she said softly. “Will Mommy ever come to my play?” His throat tightened. He caught his reflection in the car’s window—dark-haired, blue-eyed, his professional composure still intact, but the vulnerability in his gaze betrayed him. “I promise I’ll do everything I can to make sure someone you love is here for your play, Sophie,” he said, touching her knee. She smiled a small, hopeful smile. “Okay.” As he drove away, Ethan’s mind raced. He needed a plan—something more than excuses or empty promises. He needed a mother figure for Sophie, someone real, someone dependable. But where would he find such a person? And to trust her with his daughter’s heart? Later that afternoon, back at Harrington Medical Center, he scrubbed into a double bypass surgery. The rhythmic hum of monitors and the sterile scent of antiseptic should have calmed him. Instead, each heartbeat he repaired seemed to echo Sophie’s lonely question: “Where’s Mommy?” When the final stitches were placed and the patient stable, Ethan stepped out of the OR, scrub cap still perched on dark curls. His assistant, Teresa, waited by the glass doors. She knew him better than most—she’d been by his side since his early days as an attending. “You did great,” Teresa whispered, handing him a certificate of commendation from the hospital director. “But you look distracted.” He held up the certificate, forcing a smile that didn’t touch his eyes. “This belongs to Sophie,” he said quietly. “She won’t have her mom here, so I need something more—for her.” Teresa folded her arms, concern creasing her brow. “You’re not thinking of hiring someone, are you?” He met her gaze. “I am.” She exhaled slowly. “You know that’s…unconventional.” He nodded. “Sophie deserves a mother at her side for these milestones. I can’t give her Celeste. I need someone else.” Teresa studied him, the lines around her eyes softening. “If you’re sure.” He was more than sure—he was desperate. That evening, after Sophie was tucked into bed and reading her favorite picture book, Ethan sat at his desk, the soft glow of a table lamp illuminating his laptop screen. He typed “childhood companion agency”—a discreet service he’d once heard mentioned in passing by an acquaintance at a gala. A few clicks later, he was on the phone, voice careful, professional. “I need someone,” he said, settling into the high-backed leather chair. “A mother figure for my daughter. It’s temporary, for school functions, plays, that sort of thing. Strictly professional. No attachments.” He paused, listening. “Credentials? Yes. Background checks? Of course. Discretion is non-negotiable.” He hung up, throat tight but hopeful. Sophie’s first play was only two months away. He had to move fast. He closed the laptop and rose, stretching exhausted limbs. Upstairs, Sophie’s bedroom light burned softly. He peeked in—her chestnut curls crowned the pillow while Honey lay tucked under the blanket. She stirred, murmuring something he couldn’t quite catch. Ethan brushed a gentle kiss on her forehead. “Sleep tight, Sophie.” He turned off the light, letting the house settle into quiet. Standing in the dark foyer, Ethan realized this arrangement was more than a solution—it was his leap of faith. He was venturing into uncharted territory of trust and vulnerability. But for Sophie, he would do anything. As he climbed the stairs, the final thought echoing in his mind wasn’t about logistics or contracts. It was the single word his daughter had asked: “Mommy?” He resolved that soon, Sophie would have an answer. A real mother—if only in name—would stand by her side. And maybe, just maybe, Ethan himself might find something he’d long ago lost: the courage to let someone into his heart.