With eight days to go to arbitration, the appointment is rescheduled. It’s the third reschedule in the past two weeks.
My father has booked plane tickets – he wants to be here for moral support. Nonrefundable tickets. He’ll change them or give them away, and fly up on the new dates, he says.
No biggie, he says.
My coworkers have juggled their schedules to accommodate me, and juggled them again.
Don’t worry, they say. You’d do it for us if the situation was reversed.
The carpool drivers have arranged their schedules around mine, and now re-arrange their schedules around mine.
Not a problem, they tell me. Schedules and kids are a moving target anyway.
I look at the new date on the calendar and discover it’s a few days after my birthday. It’s not so bad, really – the end is in sight and all the last-minute re-jiggering means I get to have a nice birthday. It will be the first time in many, many years, that I’ve had my father at my birthday celebrations.
Just a little longer.
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