His daughter had her mother’s curly hair, his crooked smile, and light blue eyes that came from some combination of genetic rules involving big B’s and little B’s he vaguely remembered from high school biology.

That all made sense.

The part Jim couldn’t follow as well, was where Cecelia had gotten her temper. He liked to think of himself as a pretty go-with-the-flow kind of guy and, a few pregnancy hormone related outbursts aside, Pam was the most even tempered woman he knew.

So how was it that their 16 month old had taken to pitching fits on a multiple time a day basis?

Cece had been a docile newborn, a curious infant, but in the last weeks, she’d taken to throwing tantrums.

And food. Copious amounts of food.

“Come on, Cece,” Jim chided. “Isn’t there anything you feel like eating?”

She responded in a manner she clearly thought was appropriate and Jim sighed ruefully. Sure, Dunder Mifflin wasn’t an ultra formal office setting, but he was pretty sure coming into work in a suit splattered with rice cereal would be frowned upon.

“All right, monkey, up you go.” He lifted a hollering Cecelia out of her high chair, balancing her on one hip while wiping her with a cleaning cloth. “Maybe you’ll eat later, huh? Just no counting calories, okay?”

She pressed her round face to his shoulder. He bounced her until her cries subsided, feeling his jacket becoming more damp. When she’d calmed, he held her up, bringing her close to him.

“Can Daddy have a kiss, please?”

She pressed her wet little lips to the closest target, Jim’s nose, and he smiled, feeling warm and trying not to focus on how much he would miss this in the future.

Her debt paid, his daughter countered with a demand of her own.

“Botty.”

For the most part, they’d gotten Cece into the sippy-cup habit, but sometimes all she seemed to want was her bottle. The pediatrician had said she was developing just fine, she was just a little reluctant to grow up sometimes.

Jim could sympathize.

But he also had to be a parent.

“Sippy cup,” he answered, holding up the red one Cece seemed to appreciate.

“Botty,” she replied, her voice going louder.

He steeled his resolve.

“Cecelia, you’re a big girl,” he instructed her. “Bottles are for babies.”

Cece screwed up her face, seeming to coil in his arms.

“Botty!” She screamed. “Botty, botty!”

He sighed. “All right,” he replied, hoping Pam was still in the shower. She was a wonderful, calm mother, but he knew hearing Cece cry broke her heart a little, same as his, so he preferred when the little monkey would throw her fits to him.

“All right,” he repeated, going to get the bottle. Maybe he could blend a banana in with her milk so she’d get more nutrients. Yeah, that was a good idea. “At least you’ll be getting something to eat. But we have to work on this resistance of yours, young lady. Cups are perfectly fine drinking receptacles.”

She whimpered at him.

“I know, I know,” he soothed. “They’re not as fun, they don’t have nipples, I get it. I like nipples too. But before I know it, you’re going to be all grown up and going off to prom, and you can’t be socially well-adjusted if you take a bottle to prom, now can you?”

At least not that sort of a bottle. It all flashed in front of him then -- teen years, boys, cars, prom, credit cards -- and he felt a little dizzy. Okay, a lot dizzy.

“Oh boy,” he sighed, reaching into the refrigerator to get the milk, “Daddy is so screwed.”

“On and on you will hike, and I know you’ll hike far, and face up to your problems, whatever they are.”

“Oh, The Places You’ll Go” was Cece’s favorite. She sat, looking at Jim in rapt attention.

“More, Daddy, more!” she squealed, clapping her hands.

He grinned a goofy grin at her and shifted his weight on the edge of the bath tub. His bare naked, curly headed toddler giggled at him from her spot on the pink training seat he’d set on the toilet.

Cece had developed a sudden aversion to clothes, ill-timed in December, so Jim and Pam cranked up the heat and decided to make the best of it, combining naked time with potty time.

Their daughter wholeheartedly preferred naked time.

“In a minute, monkey,” he told her, reaching over to the sink to turn on the tap, hoping the running water would encourage her.

She shook her head. “More,” she demanded. “More now.” She bounced excitedly and Jim grabbed a gentle hold to keep her from falling.

“Okay,” he agreed. He couldn’t deny that she had him wrapped ever so tightly around her little finger, but if he was going to be accused of spoiling his baby by indulging her desire to be read to, then call him Sucker Daddy.

“You’ll get mixed up of course, as you already know. You’ll be mixed up with many strange birds as you go. So be sure when you step. Step with care and great tact and remember that Life’s a Great Balancing Act.”

Three repeats of Dr. Seuss later, Jim’s throat was getting sore, his backside was starting to hurt from sitting on the edge of the tub, and the kid hadn’t peed a drop.

“Okay,” he said, turning off the tap. “I guess you’re not ready for potty time right now.” He lifted her off the seat, standing her on the floor.

As soon as he reached for a diaper, the screeching began.

“No!” She yelled, shaking her head. “No no no no no no no no no no no no no no no!”

Cecelia Halpert was even more fond of the word “no” than she was of being naked.

“Cecelia Marie,” Jim warned in his “Daddy’s serious” tone, “it’s time to put on your diaper. Naked time is over.”

She shook her head, her face growing red. “No no no no no no no no!”

With each “no,” Cece’s voice pitched higher and Jim waited for the dog next door to start barking. When there was no canine response, he tried again.

“Cece…”

“No!”

Jim sighed. “All right,” he agreed. “You can have a little more naked time but the diaper goes on before bed.”

Sucker Daddy indeed.

He lead her out of the bathroom, releasing to let her toddle her way down the hall. Feeling a slight chill, Jim called out. “Monkey, hold on.”

Her bedroom was past the stairs and despite the baby gate, Jim didn’t want to take any risks.

He made his way over to the thermostat on the wall. As he adjusted it, a muffled splattering sound hit his ears.

Groaning, he turned around.

“Is this your idea of a prank?” he asked his daughter ruefully. “What was that before? Performance anxiety?”

She didn’t even bother to look sheepish.

Jim shook his head. “You’re a mischievous little monkey,” he informed her, waiting for her to finish, figuring cleaning up one puddle was the easiest option at this point.

She bounced a bit. “Potty time, Daddy.”

Jim sighed. “Yeah,” he agreed, picking her up and carrying her back toward the bathroom to clean her up. “We’re going to have to work on your timing, young lady.”

Jim had always been a heavy sleeper, but since Cece had been born, he’d been sleeping more and more lightly.

So when the screams started, he bolted up quickly.

“Pam,” he said, automatically. “Pam.”

He turned toward her side of the bed, finding it empty. Confused, Jim shook his head, his brain still working to catch up to sudden consciousness.

“Right,” he said aloud. She was away for a few nights, staying at her father’s following his bypass surgery. He clambered out of bed and grabbed for a t-shirt.

“Mommy!”

Jim ran down the hall and into Cece’s room. She was thrashing around, her legs getting tangled in the hippo sheets on her big girl bed.

“Mommy!” she screeched again.

He rushed to the bed and scooped her up on to his lap, untangling her and drawing her close to his chest as he tried to control her churning arms and legs.

“Hey, hey, baby,” he murmured in soothing tones, trying to coax her gently out her nightmare. “Hey, little girl, shhhh, it’s okay. Daddy’s here. Daddy’s got you, baby.”

Her nightgown was soaked with sweat as he rubbed her back in small circles, her auburn curls tangled and plastered to her face. Jim took deep breaths, his throat tightening as Cece sobbed and hiccupped her way to consciousness in her father’s arms.

He wondered what sort of nightmare had plagued his little girl, wanting to cry a little himself at the sight of her. Pete had accused him of being “whipped by a three-year-old,” but she was his baby. So as his amazing wife (god, he missed her; even three days apart was too long) said, Pete could suck it.

“Daddy?” Her voice was small and pitiful.

“Yeah, baby,” he soothed, rocking her. “Daddy’s got you. Did you have a bad dream?”

Cece hiccupped and blew her nose on his t-shirt. “Mean dog ate Mommy,” she informed him, her eyes filling up again.

Was this because Pam had been away overnight? Jim was immediately plagued with guilt. He should have suggested her father stay with them while he was recuperating, or volunteered to go himself so Pam could be with Cece, or hired a nurse.

Logically he knew nightmares were a normal part of childhood and nothing horribly traumatizing, but when his baby was curled up in his lap at 1 in the morning, sweaty and shaking, Jim wanted only to make it stop.

“No,” he murmured. “No. Mommy’s visiting Grandpa. There’s no mean dog, baby. Mommy’s fine. You’re fine too. Cece’s fine.”

When she’d calmed down, he stripped his daughter and the bed, giving her a quick sponge bath with a cool washcloth and braiding her damp hair to keep it from sticking to her, then changed the sheets and put her in a fresh nightgown.

“I want to sleep in your bed, Daddy,” she pleaded as he tucked her back in, looking at him so imploringly with her big blue eyes that he almost said yes. But he and Pam had been making an effort to not indulge Cecelia when they shouldn’t, not wanting to raise a spoiled child.

“No, baby,” he told her. “You have to sleep in your own bed. But I’ll stay right here until you fall asleep.”

He sat beside her and stroked her head, hoping to lure her into good dreams.

“Sing my song, Daddy,” she begged, her voice sleepy.

That he could do. She cuddled against him, resting her cheek against his thigh as he sang:

You are my sunshine
My only sunshine
You make me happy
When skies are gray.

“Daddy, can we have a pet snake?”

Jim choked on his coffee, his head turning to look at his daughter - his curly haired, pink-cheeked little girl, dressed in a soft yellow t-shirt and overalls with flowers on them, her blue eyes staring innocently at him. Everything about her said “girl,” and now, what?

“I’m sorry, what?” he said, sure he’d misheard her.

Cecelia had gone back to diligently tearing up pieces of stale bread to toss to the ducks in the pond at the park near their house.

“A snake,” she repeated calmly, as she tossed some bread and watched a pair of mallards fight for it. “I want a snake, please.”

Apparently he hadn’t misheard.

“Why,” he asked cautiously, “do you want a snake?”

She tossed more bread. “Dougie Webber has one,” she told him. “He brought it to school for show and tell, and he wouldn’t let me touch it. So I want one so I can tell him he can’t play with mine.”

Interesting tactic, but Jim had to wonder where Cece had come up with this eye for an eye solution. He was pretty sure it wasn’t something he and Pam had taught her. He slid off he bench and kneeled in the grass next to his daughter.

“So you just want a snake to be mean to Dougie Webber?” he asked, holding out his hand. “Can Daddy have some bread for the ducks, please?”

She handed him some torn-up pieces. “Yes,” she replied, not about the bread, but about the snake. “He’s mean to me.”

Jim sighed. “Come here, Cee,” he said, arranging himself cross-legged on the ground and pulling her on to his lap. “You’re going to be too big for this soon.”

She shrugged up at him.

“Dougie shouldn’t be mean to you,” he told her, “but being mean back to him doesn’t make it better.”

She seemed to contemplate this. “So no snake?”

Jim shook his head. “No baby, no snake.”

Cece nodded. “Turtle?”

He tugged lightly on her ponytail. “Since when do you want slimy pets?” he queried.

“That’s what she said,” Cecelia replied, blinking.

Oh god.

“That’s what who said,” Jim asked slowly, praying that it was simply a matter of him having asked a question she’d already answered.

Cece shrugged. “I dunno,” she told him flippantly. “Uncle Michael said it.”

“And…you’re never going to the office with Momma and Daddy ever again,” he informed her.

He leaned down to give her an Eskimo kiss, brushing her tiny nose with the tip of his not-so-tiny once, and wrapped her legs around his waist.

“Turtle, Daddy?”

He planted a kiss on the top of her head. “Maybe when you’re older, Cee, okay?”

She seemed to accept this. “Okay,” she said, nodding. “I love you.”

He loved that she now told he and Pam she loved them without prompting. There was almost nothing better.

“I love you, sweet girl.”

She delivered a perfunctory kiss to his chin and climbed off his lap, scrambling close to the ducks.

“Daddy?” she called back.

“Hmmm?”

“If I get a turtle,” she said, “I want to name her Dougie Webber Stinks.”

Five years, seven months, three days and about four hours into fatherhood, Jim was still learning some of the basic lessons of having a child.

Lessons like silence is actually a bad thing. And lessons like specificity is of the utmost importance.

Determined to snake a clogged bathroom drain while Pam went out to run errands, he’d set Cecelia up in the living room with paper and crayons, put on the DVD of “Annie” she’d become attached to, and instructed her to “color and call for me if you need anything.”

“Okay, Daddy,” she’d said charmingly.

An hour later, the drain back in successful working order (and his masculinity fully intact), Jim realized he hadn’t heard a peep from downstairs.

“Oh shit,” he mumbled, rushing down the steps, calling “Cece, what are you doing?”

“Drawing, Daddy,” she called back.

He stepped into the living room.

“Cecelia Marie Halpert!”

Apparently when he said “color,” he should have indicated that she was only meant to color on the paper he’d set in front of her.

Instead, the five-year-old had taken creative license with the instructions she’d been given and had created a multicolored mural on the living room wall, featuring a house, flowers, clouds, several rainbows, birds of every color, and three figures helpfully labeled “Cece,” “Momma” and “Daddy,” all with long spidery lashes and bright red grins that stretched to the edges of their faces.

At the thundering of her name, Cecelia dropped the purple crayon in her hand, her chin quivering.

“You said color,” she reminded him, tremblingly.

Jim shook his head, determined to stand his ground. “Cecelia, do you really think I meant to color on the walls that we just painted last month?”

It had taken Pam weeks to find a color she loved. They’d finally settled on a creamy sage green. Jim had loved how happy she’d looked, standing on a step ladder in jeans and an old t-shirt, covered in paint as she negotiated borders and he rolled large swaths of color on to the opposite wall, as he “couldn’t be trusted with the details,” she’d informed him.

She’d swiped at his cheek with the brush and he’d grabbed her about the waist, roller still in hand, imprinting the back of her shirt and jeans light green. One thing had lead to another and they’d made love on the drop cloth covered floor, after which Jim vowed they would never, ever hire a professional to do any paint work in the house.

And now their careful, not to mention fairly costly, work had been further enhanced by the artistic styling of one Miss Halpert.

Who had yet to answer the question her father had asked.

“Cecelia?” He started again. “Why did you color on the walls?”

“You didn’t say just the paper,” she squeaked in a tiny voice, blinking at him.

Jim groaned. “You’re a big girl,” he informed her, “you know walls are not for drawing on.”

Cecelia’s lip trembled, her blue eyes grew wide and filled with tears. “Cece’s a little girl,” she pouted in her best baby voice. “A bad little girl. Bad, bad, bad.”

Jim shook his head. He knew he was a sucker for his baby, but he also knew when he was being had.

“Oh, no Miss,” he said, reaching out and picking her up, his hands resting under her backside so she was sitting on them, eye level to him. “I am not falling for those crocodile tears.” He kissed a fat teardrop off each of her round cheeks.

“I’m bad, Daddy,” she said again.

He shook his head. “You’re not bad, Cece. You’re a good girl. But you did something wrong. You knew coloring on the walls isn’t allowed. So you have to have a punishment.”

“Stay up until this dump shines like the top of the Chrysler building?”

Jim laughed ruefully. “No, little Orphan Annie,” he said, “and don’t let your mother hear you calling her nice house a dump. But you have to clean the wall and I’m taking away your crayons and markers for a week.”

Cecelia’s mouth dropped. “Daddy!”

“Cece!” he mimicked, good naturedly.

She pouted at him. “That’s not fair.”

Jim shrugged. “Well, next time you want to color on the walls, you’ll remember that you didn’t like your punishment.” He set her down on the ground. “Go on,” he said, “go put on your old blue bathing suit so you don’t get your clothes wet and soapy.”

As Cece trotted off toward her bedroom, Jim went to the laundry room to find a bucket and some old towels. Pulling his cell phone out of his pocket, he hit a couple of numbers.

“Hey, babe,” he said when Pam answered, “wait ‘till you hear about what your daughter’s been up to…”

“So,” Jim asked, “what do you think?”

Cece shrugged, the hand that was holding his tugging up for a moment. “I don’t know,” she said, “they’re kind of boring. All they did was sleep.”

Jim laughed. “It’s tiring being born, monkey girl. You did a whole lot of sleeping too.”

Maybe he was experiencing some sort of muscle memory from his last experience as the father of an infant, but despite only having about 6 hours of sleep in the last 48, he felt strangely energized. He was probably punch drunk and sleep deprived, but somehow the idea of a six-year-old and newborn twins didn’t phase him a bit.

In fact, he felt like he could run a 10k about now.

Cece, on the other hand, was dragging her feet. Jim was pretty sure it wasn’t from tiredness, seeing as how his mother said she’d slept about nine hours.

But he also knew if he called her out, she would be indignant. Like her mother, sometimes Cecelia needed a little time to process.

And a little reassurance.

“Big day,” he started, “meeting your new little brother and sister.”

Cece shrugged.

“Bet all the excitement wore you out a little, huh Cee?”

She shrugged again as they walked slowly down the hospital corridor. “Little bit,” she whispered, peering up at him through her long bangs.

Jim smiled tenderly at his first born. “You want me to carry you the rest of the way?” He knew she needed some special attention, a reminder that she wasn’t going to be forgotten about in the midst of two new siblings.

She scuffed the toe of her red shoe on the linoleum and nodded. “Uh huh.”

“Uh huh,” he said back to her, reaching down to pick her up. Cece wrapped her legs around his torso and her arms around his neck, resting her head on his shoulder. He held on tight and pressed a kiss to the side of her curly head.

“Mommy and I are so proud of you,” he said, “you’re going to be the best big sister ever. Alexander and Natalie are so lucky to have you.”

She whimpered a bit, a little reluctant, he knew, to give up her spot as the one and only Halpert child.

“You’re Daddy’s extra special girl,” he whispered to her like it was a secret. “You know that?”

She nodded against his neck and wrapped her arms more tightly around him. Jim was being slightly choked, but he didn’t mind. He just held on tight too, wanting her to feel safe.

“Daddy?”

“Yeah, baby?”

Cece’s voice was muffled against his shoulder. “What’s sex?”

Choking whilst carrying a six year old was not a good thing, but Jim took comfort in the fact that at least they were still in the hospital, if the shock of hearing his little girl say “sex” actually was producing the heart attack he was pretty sure he was having.

He shifted her so she was eye to eye with him. “I’m sorry, what?”

Her eyes were big. “Ava said babies come from sex. What is it?”

He remembered something from high school biology: Coronary thrombosis.

No. No. If he dropped dead and made Pam a widow with three small children, she’d kill him.

“Well, um,” he began. Holy crap, how was he going to do this? “When a mommy and daddy love each other very much…”

Seriously, Jim, “when a mommy and daddy love each other very much?” Did he think he was on “Sesame Street?“ He could hear his brothers, both of whom still used the word “douche” liberally, mocking him.

“Wait a minute,” Cece interrupted him, narrowing her eyes suspiciously. “Is there kissing?”

Well, this could prove promising…

Jim nodded gravely. “Yes,” he told her soberly. “There’s kissing. And…”

“Ew, Daddy,” she instructed. “Stop.”

Oh, the saving grace of squeamish six-year-olds.

“Cece!”

No answer.

“Cece!”

Still no answer. He walked down the hall.

“Cecelia!”

He walked further. No answer, but he could hear the sound of singing. Ironically, a song about cleaning.

“You could do a lot when you got
Such a happy little tune to hum
While you’re sponging up the soapy scum.
We adore each fil--”

“Cecelia!” He yelled, and she whipped around, silenced mid-lyric.

“What, Daddy?”

Jim pushed his hair off his face. “I’ve been calling for you,” he said, “I don’t like when you don’t listen, Cece.”

She shrugged. “Sorry, Daddy.” Then she turned back to the TV.

Jim was pretty sure this was karma from his own childhood.

“Cecelia Marie,” he said firmly, trying to keep from snapping at her, “your room is pigsty. There are toys and books and crayons everywhere. You were supposed to clean it this morning.”

“When the movie is over,” she said, her eyes not leaving the screen.

Well, that was enough of that. He walked over, hitting the stop button on the DVD player and removing the disc.

“Daddy!” Cece screamed, stomping her foot. “I was watching that.”

He placed the DVD in the cabinet near the ceiling, where he knew she couldn’t reach even if she climbed up the shelves like she wasn’t allowed to do but still did sometimes.

“You can watch it again when your room is clean,” he informed her.

She crossed her arms and stuck out her lower lip. “No fair!”

He crossed his arms right back. “I don’t want to hear no fair. Your mother and I have asked you five times to pick up your room. Now march.” He pointed to the steps.

She huffed and stomped toward the stairs. He could hear her banging up the steps, down the hall and…

“Don’t slam the-”

Too late.

Jim sighed and sat down on the couch, flipping on ESPN. He could hear Cece above him, stomping around her room.

He hated to be “mean Daddy,” but he and Pam were pretty determined not to let their kids be spoiled brats. They’d seem some spoiled brats, at Cece’s school and even at Nattie and Zander’s day care, and they’d decided they didn’t want anyone thinking about their children what they’d thought about some other people’s.

He knew they could be stricter, but there was, he was constantly learning, a fine line to walk.

Twenty minutes later, he heard Cece coming down the stairs again, her steps still defiant, but not quite as angry.

“Your room all clean?” He called from the couch.

No answer. Jim sighed.

“Cece?”

No answer. He could hear her moving around the kitchen, opening and closing drawers. He stood up and walked in.

Cece was standing on a chair, spreading peanut butter on to slices of bread. Her red backpack was on the floor next to her. He could see Freckles, her favorite stuffed leopard, sticking out.

“Whatcha doing?” Jim asked from the doorway, though he was pretty sure he knew.

She didn’t look at him. “Running away,” she informed him coldly. “I’m mad at you.”

Jim nodded. This wasn’t the first time Cece had run away from home. Reasoning with her wouldn’t work right now, he knew.

So he watched, silently, as she finished constructing her peanut butter sandwich and put it in a bag along with an apple, a small package of Oreos and a juice box from the refrigerator.

She put the lunch bag in her backpack, then placed the pack on her little shoulders, and walked past her father, her braids swishing.

He turned and watched as she took her sweater from the hook by the door and walked out, careful to let the door slam just a little, just enough to show that she was still mad, but not enough to make him angry.

Jim walked into the living room and looked out the window, careful to stay hidden behind the curtain. He watched as Cece climbed on to her light purple bicycle, first fishing her helmet out of the basket and strapping it on, and replacing it in the basket with her sweater.

Then she rode away.

To the end of the driveway.

When she reached the mailbox, Cece stopped, climbed off her bike and settled down on the grass, cross legged. She sat Freckles on her lap, and pulled out her lunch bag and book.

Jim watched her take a bite of an Oreo, another show of rebellion, he knew, eating dessert first. She opened the book - “The Secret Garden” - to a dog-eared page and began to read, chewing her cookie, her back to the house.

He smiled, shook his head and went back to watching the game, the volume low.

She’d come home before the sun went down, he knew.

That was the rule.

As a man, there were some things Jim Halpert was wholly incapable of understanding.

Like why a woman would choose to wear a wedding dress so voluminous, she required assistance from two bridesmaids just to use the restroom.

Peeing, in Jim’s mind, was a solo activity.

But apparently, Penny didn’t share his opinion, so he was missing out on a chance to dance to “Fields of Gold” - which had the dual benefit of being both a romantic song and providing the opportunity for Scrantonicity jokes - with Pam, who was busy doing god knows what in a cramped bathroom.

On the plus side, he was getting to dance with the prettiest flower girl in the world.

Much, it seemed, to the envy of one little boy who was the nephew of some cousin of some friend’s mother’s brother-in-law’s neighbor.

“Hey,” he stage whispered to his partner, who was balanced on top of his black wing tips in her white Mary Janes, her arms wrapped around his waist, “I think that boy over there wants to dance with you. He keeps giving me dirty looks.”

Holding on tight, Cece twisted her head to look at the boy in question.

And, much to Jim’s horror, let loose with the sort of twisted, tongue out, cross-eyed snarl that had made his parents say things like “if you’re not careful, your face will freeze that way” when he was Cecelia’s age.

“Cece!” he chastised, pulling her back and shooting an apologetic look at the child. “That’s not nice.”

She sulked. “Daddy, he’s gross.”

Jim did a little waltz step, or faked one, carrying his little girl around the dance floor. “How do you know that?” he asked. “He doesn’t look gross. Besides, it’s not nice to make faces.”

Cece let out one of those exasperated sighs she was just starting to learn, the kind of sigh he knew he’d be hearing more and more of as she got older.

“He’s a boy, Daddy,” she informed him. “Boys are gross.”

Jim lifted her off his feet and on to the ground to twirl her under his arm. “I’m a boy,” he pointed out. “Am I gross?”

“You’re not a boy,” she pointed out, “you’re a daddy.”
He nodded, sagely, as if coming to deep understanding. “Ahhhh… so then it’s okay if I do… this?”

Swiftly, he swept her up off the ground and into his arms, planting a loud, sloppy kiss on her cheek.

“Daddy, ew!” she squeaked, wiping her cheek off, but she didn’t squirm to be put down.

So he adjusted his grip and continued to dance, his feet stepping around the floor, Cece’s dangling somewhere near his hips, her face pressed into his collar.

“Stay closer to the ball on the dribble, Ava… Chloe, eyes up… Ashtynn, eyes down, stop staring at clouds… good hustle Emmy… pass the ball, Cece… Jordan, not so far back in the goal…”

It was funny how things turned out. Despite having a basketball playing father (at 40, Jim was long past his high school glory days on the court, but he could still run a good game) and a high school volleyball star for a mother, Cece Halpert had found her athletic prowess on the soccer field.

And despite not being able to actually play soccer to save his life, Jim found that he was actually quite adept at coaching, proving the old saying “those who can’t do, teach” does actually hold some merit.

At least, that’s what he liked to tell his wife, who would invariably tell him to “suck it” so long as the children weren’t around (if they were, he was told to “hush it”). And he would remind her that she wasn’t a teacher, exactly, she was a guidance counselor. Then he would, at some point after the kids were asleep, enthusiastically follow her instructions and then some, proving that the myth about the jar of marbles and sex in the first year of marriage versus subsequent years was, indeed, a myth.

At least, as far as Jim and Pam were concerned.

Despite a nine-year-old, three-year-old twins, a basement that flooded in storms and aging parents, Mr. and Mrs. Halpert were keeping the romance very much alive.

Now that they were no longer working together, the time they did get alone was even more valuable.

The efforts by Sabre had been noble, but not enough, and Dunder Mifflin had shut down two years earlier. Pam was now the sophomore guidance counselor at West Scranton High School. Jim was still in office supplies, as sales director of a company called Jay’s Business Systems. He liked the non-corporate atmosphere and had discovered that he was actually quite a good manager, when he wasn’t managing people who still saw him as the office slacker.

The twins were thriving. Nattie was the superior tricyclist and bather. Zander had to be coaxed, sometimes forced, into the bath. He was better at dressing himself and could stack blocks seven high to Nattie’s four. Zander preferred Daddy’s bedtime story reading to Mommy’s, Nattie had the opposite opinion, and they both agreed that the best story reader was Cece.

The resident queen of “doing all the voices” (she’d inherited her father’s talent for mimicry and then some) was strong in social studies, needed some improvement on her bimonthly book reports, and was, much to her parents’ pride and horror, one of only 11 fourth graders at John Marshall Elementary to not have her own cell phone.

She’d played Lucy in “You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown,” was an absolutely terrible violinist, showed some talent with a camera but little with a paintbrush, and was the star halfback of the Scranton Sunflowers.

At least, that’s what one Coach Halpert secretly thought.

Practice time was over. The parents who didn’t watch (and sometimes backseat coach) had arrived to collect their daughters.

Jim blew his whistle and the girls ran in off the field, chattering away. He gathered them up quickly for a little “go team” and then sent everyone off.

“Way to steal the ball from Ashtynn,” he grinned, tugging Cece’s ponytail as she helped him collect water cups. “That was a good move.”

“Thanks, Coach!” She grinned back brightly.

Jim loaded her and the equipment into the minivan and started toward home.

“You have a lot of homework tonight?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Ten math problems and I have to read a chapter of “Five Little Peppers." But I did the math during recess.”

“Why didn’t you want to play?” Jim asked.

Cece shrugged. “It was right after class,” she said. “I remember how to do division better right after class. So I did. Ms. Melendy checked my answers. She said I got them all right, except two.”

“Good girl,” Jim smiled.

He turned on to Washington Ave., driving by Alfredo’s Pizza Café.

“Dad, can we get pizza for dinner?” Cece piped up suddenly.

Jim did a double take at the question. Pizza for dinner sounded good.

But since when was he “Dad” instead of “Daddy?”

It was a little heartbreaking, actually.

The house was full to the brimming and Jim had no idea who half the people inside were.

He knew he was supposed to know all the unfamiliar faces and voices offering their condolences.

What is one supposed to say?

“Thank you,” he guessed.

He had to get out of there.

Ice. They were out of ice. Were they? The hell with it, he decided. They needed more ice.

He didn’t see Pam, but she’d understand.

Quietly, he made his way toward the front door, grabbing his keys off the hall table and slipped out. As he walked quickly down the path toward his car, he spotted a flash of black amongst the thick orange leaves of the autumn oak in the front yard.

“Come on down from there, Cece Marie,” he called.

He stood by the trunk, waiting for her to make her way down through the branches. When she was low enough, he held out his arms and she reached down, letting him lift her out of the tree. She wrapped her arms and legs around him like she’d done when she was little, before she’d started asking to be dropped off a block away from her friends’ houses and peppering her speech with “O.M.G!”

Jim reveled in the moment, holding on tight and drawing her head on his shoulder, softly stroking her wavy hair. Right now, he needed time to stop moving so quickly, needed his babies to stop growing up so fast.

“Where are you going?” she asked, her voice muffled against his suit jacket.

“To get more ice,” he replied.

Cece tightened her arms around him, and he loved how intuitive she was, how like her mother she was.”

“We have ice,” she whispered, and he nodded but didn’t say anything. “Can I come, Daddy?”

He set her down on the ground and nodded. “Yeah, baby.”

They settled in the car, buckling safety belts, and Jim started to turn right out of the drive to head toward the store when Cece shook her head.

“Go the long way,” she said.

So he turned left instead.

“Tell me a story from the olden days,” Cece asked softly, and Jim laughed at her inclination to refer to his childhood thusly, because somehow he couldn’t quite conceive of the ‘80s as being “olden.”

“Okay,” he replied. “When I was a little younger than you are, your Uncle Tom had just gotten his drivers license and he got a speeding ticket because, well-”

“Because he’s Uncle Tom,” Cece filled in. Smart girl.

Jim nodded, laughing. “Right, because he’s Uncle Tom. Anyway, he got a speeding ticket and Papa had take him to Wilkes-Barre to court. So somehow, I end up having to go with them, I don’t remember why. You can imagine how much a nine-year-old liked sitting in traffic court.”

Cecelia wrinkled her nose.

“So anyway, the whole thing takes a couple of hours and as we’re driving home, your Papa is lecturing Uncle Tom about driving being a privilege, and how he has to be responsible and show he’s mature enough to drive a car, all that.”

She nodded. “Then what?”

He smiled. “I’m getting there, Cee. So Papa’s going on to Tom about being responsible, and he keeps looking in the rearview mirror and saying “You need to be listening to this too, James.”

“Papa’s the only one who ever calls you that,” Cece remarked, and Jim nodded, feeling wistful, not quite ready to face a world without his father in it.

“Anyway,” he went on, “as he’s going on and on about showing maturity and earning privileges, like driving, red lights start flashing behind us and we hear a siren.”

Cece burst out laughing. “Papa got a ticket?”

Jim nodded, smirking. “A speeding ticket. After spending the whole ride telling Tom about why speeding is bad and how responsible adults always pay attention.”

Cece laughed and laughed, throwing back her head, and it was good to hear laughter after days of hushed voices.

Without even realizing it, they’d come back to their street. He parked in front of the house.

“We didn’t get ice,” she remarked.

Jim nodded. “We have ice,” he reminded her, and she nodded back.

He was a lucky man.

Sneaking around his own house was still something to which Jim wasn’t quite accustomed.

“Promise you’ll stay upstairs,” his careening-closer-to-adolescence-every-day daughter had instructed him and her mother.

And they’d promised. They’d even sent the twins off for a sleepover with Grandma (and Grandma’s new boyfriend, Herb).

But they couldn’t quite help themselves.

Jim had been elected representative to venture into the kitchen, under the guise of getting a snack. After all, grown ups got hungry after 10:30 sometimes.

So there he was, in the kitchen, tiptoeing around in his socks, making up a couple of turkey sandwiches on wheat (and yes, listening for sounds of anything requiring parental intervention), when he hears footsteps and moments later, Cecelia comes in.

“Don’t shoot,” he stage whispered, holding up his hands in surrender. “I’m just taking the sandwiches up to Mom.”

Cece shuffled her feet in her blue floral print pajama pants and yellow t-shirt and shrugged. “It’s okay,” she said, and she sounded sad in that way that 11-year-olds sound when they’re trying not to sound sad and it just makes them sound more sad.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

She shrugged again and he was really starting to worry that she was going to develop some sort of shoulder issue, because shrugging seemed to be her primary method of communication these days.

“Nothing.”

Jim raised an eyebrow. “Come on, Cee.”

Again, a shrug.

“Ava and Ashtynn keep sending text messages to Jake Foster and I wanted to watch that old movie, but Gemma said it was lame that we don’t have a 3D TV. And no one wants to play any of the games.”

Her eyes were welling up and sometimes he really missed those days where he didn’t have to say much more than “share” and “play nice” and “don’t bite” in reference to social interactions.

Jim nodded. “Okay,” he said, keeping his voice level. “Do you want to drink some beer and invite boys over?”

Cece’s mouth dropped. “Really?”

Sometimes she so resembled him and Pam, he forgot she was only 11. Dry humor was sometimes lost on children.

“No, not really,” he laughed. “I know I’m the world’s coolest dad” - she rolled her eyes - “but I’m not quite that cool.”

Another sigh, another eye roll, an imploring look.

“How about…” he thought for a moment. “What if Mom and I take you girls to the midnight show at the drive-in?”

Cece wrinkled her nose. “No. You and Mom will get all mushy about when you were young and make out the whole time. Just, ick.”

Jim laughed. “First of all, your mother and I weren’t born in the 50s. We’re about 35 years too young to have spent our Friday nights making out at the drive in. And second,“ he smirked, “what’s wrong with a little mush?”

She mimed vomiting in response and there was his answer.

“Okay, okay,” he put up his hands in defense. “What if I let you watch that On Demand concert you’ve been begging to see?”

Cece’s eyes lit up. “You said I couldn’t see it unless I got all A’s on my report card!”

Jim shrugged. “Well, we’ll think of something else you need to earn with all A’s. Like maybe getting your ears pierced?”

She groaned. “Dad! Mom said I could get them pierced for Christmas.”

He was well aware of this. Cece had been begging to have her ears pierced for years and they’d decided she was finally old enough to be responsible. But it didn’t hurt to make her think her heart’s desire was contingent on good grades, did it? He felt a little bad at what he knew was blatant manipulation, but really, he thought, how much longer would he be able to pull it off with her?

So he nodded solemnly. “And you can. If you have a good report card.”

Cece pursed her lips. “We can watch the concert tonight?” She twisted on her socked feet.

Jim nodded. “I’ll even let you watch on the big TV in the living room.”

She looked from one side to the other, like there were spies watching and beckoned for him to come closer. He leaned down to her level.

“Can we have a beer?” she whispered, and unlike his earlier wisecrack, she didn’t seem to be kidding.

“Don’t push it, Cecelia Marie,” he warned. “There’s no way in-” he stopped himself in time - “heck that I’m giving you and your friends beer.”

There went the rolling eyes again. “Gemma’s father let us try his beer.”

Who the fuck did this guy think he was? Jim took a deep breath, not wanting to lose his temper in front of his daughter. He’d be having a little talk with Gemma’s father, but no need to mention that to Cece right now. He knew that in the world of 11-year-olds, interparental communication ranked high on the nightmare list.

So he just shook his head firmly. “Milk, juice or soda,” he decreed, and by his tone she knew his word was final.

“Go get your friends,” he told her.

She started to run out of the room, but spun around inside the doorway and jogged back. When she reached him, she gripped the shoulder of his t-shirt, tugging to make him lean down.

“Thanks, Dad,” she said, planting a quick kiss on his cheek.

He winked and shooed her out of the kitchen, then moved to the living room.

Soon Cece and her friends made their giggling way into the living room, dragging blankets and pillows with them. Once they were situated on the couch, Jim started going through the process of setting up the pay-per-view concert on the big screen TV.

“Mr. Halpert, you’re the coolest dad,” said Ava, and he noticed there were no cell phones in sight.

“Yeah, you rock, Mr. H,” Ashtynn added, and Gemma echoed her particular brand of thanks as well.

“Love you,” Cece mouthed and he kept up the cool dad pretense by not going over to kiss her goodnight.

“Cool,” he knew, was fleeting at 11.

“Yes, I promise I won’t burn down the house,” Jim laughed. “Of course…well, you know me…I miss you too…I love you.”

He hung up the phone and sighed. This senior guidance counselor, Gina Keller, either needed a doctor or a lecture, because it seemed every week she had one excuse or another to skip out on some sort of work obligation. Her latest ailment, a sudden onset urinary tract infection, had Pam staying late to work College Night at the high school.

So that left Jim to pick up Alexander from Chess Club, Natalie from jazz dance, and Cecelia should be home in -

Bang!

“Don’t slam the door!” He yelled out in greeting from upstairs.

“Don’t pop a vessel,” was the response he got back and he wondered whether washing a child’s mouth out with soap would be considered child abuse. Cece was a sweet kid, much better behaved than a lot of her classmates, but she still had the mouth of a 12-year-old sometimes.

In the midst of wondering when his baby girl had become a teenager, Jim heard her yell “Mom” in a half-gasp, half-shriek that set off his Dad Panic button and he rushed for the stairs.

“What’s wrong, Cee?” he asked, hurrying down.

She was standing in the hallway, shaking her head at him. “Where’s Mom?” she demanded.

Jim moved toward her. “She has to work late. Cece, what’s the matter?”

She glared. “I need Mom. Can I call her?”

He didn’t know what was going on, but he was getting worried. “Cecelia, what’s wrong?”

“Can I call Mom?” she demanded again, and Jim shook his head.

“Tell me, Cee,” he said, “are you sick?”

She sighed loudly and pushed past him, running up the stairs, Jim hot on her heels.

“Leave me alone,” she yelled, barging into her parents’ room and heading to the bathroom.

He went after her. “What are you -” he watched as she opened the cabinet under the sink and started rifling through it, a move that didn‘t thrill him considering some of the things that were kept in there. “Hey,” he said sternly, “Privacy.”

“Go away!” she screamed and he could hear the tears in her voice. He kneeled down next to her and put his hand on her back.

“Cece…”

She pushed him off and kept going through the cabinet, pushing aside items, picking them up and putting them back down - shaving cream, cotton balls, hair dryer, soap, tampons - she threw down the last item with a bit of extra force and a frustrated grunt.

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh… Now he got it.

Clearly, this was not something Cece was in the mood to talk to Dad about. And frankly he wasn't entirely sure he would know how to have the particular discussion.

“Hey,” he said quietly, rubbing circles beneath her shoulder blades in a way that had calmed her when she was a baby and still soothed her when she was sick or upset. “I need to go to the store to get some things for dinner. Come with me.”

She glared. “I don’t want to go to the stupid store.”

“Come on,” he insisted, “I don’t want to go alone. It’ll be faster with two. You can pick out dessert for tonight. Anything you want.”

Cece rolled her eyes. She picked up the bag of cotton balls and threw it down again. “I’m not a kid, Dad.”

Yeah, he was being reminded of that almost every day.

“Come on,” he pressed. “I’ll buy you that fancy hair stuff you like.”

Bribery was not Jim’s preferred method of parenting, but in a pinch it was certainly effective. And since Cece was clearly not in the mood to open up to her father and he was pretty sure she’d drop dead of embarrassment if he came home from going to the store alone and dropped a package of Kotex in her hands, he had to get her out the door somehow.

“Fine,” she sighed begrudgingly.

Hey, it worked.

When they reached the Price Chopper, he reached into his wallet and handed her two twenties.

“This will go faster if we divide and conquer,” he told the fidgeting, sullen-faced girl. “You go get your hair stuff and pick out a dessert. I’m going to get things for salad, and how about grilled cheese and tomato soup tonight?”

Grilled cheese and tomato soup was Cece’s favorite, and the suggestion earned him a tiny smile.

“Okay,” she agreed.

Jim nodded. “Just go through the checkout and we’ll meet at the exit in 20 minutes,” he instructed.

“Okay,” she said again, and turned to walk toward the bakery section. He turned the opposite way, moving toward the dairy aisle, but turned to peek back and spotted Cece doubling back and jogging to Aisle 6, marked, among other things, Feminine Hygiene Products.

Jim sighed loudly and pressed his fingertips to his temples. Fine night it was for Pam to have to work late.

He was going to kick this Gina Keller’s ass.

When she flew down the steps of the bus and into his arms, he swore she looked older, and told her so.

“Dad,” Cece laughed, shaking her head and letting her sun streaked curls fly around her face, “it’s been two weeks.”

“Well,” Jim insisted, picking up her duffle bag, “you still look older.”

He waited as she bade squealing, hug-filled goodbyes to several girls she’d met at Camp Cayuga in the Poconos.

Then a boy approached, slightly taller than Cece, with glasses and flushed cheeks. Jim watched from his slight distance with a combination of dread and curiosity.

First the boy seemed to be stammering a little. He couldn’t make out any words, but from the way the boy’s lips were moving, Jim could tell there was a bit of stammering going on.

Then Cece was nodding rapidly. She shrugged her shoulders a few times.

She shifted her weight a bit and the boy shifted his. Jim wasn’t sure if he wished he could hear what they were saying or if he wished he weren’t seeing any of this.

He saw the boy take a slight, hesitant step forward. It was a step Jim recognized, having taken it himself many times, back in his teen years and his twenties.

The last time he’d taken that step had been on a Thursday in April, 2007, in the hallway of Pam’s apartment.

It was the “can I kiss you?” step.

Jim’s jaw tensed. This was not something he was ready to see. Cece was too young. He’d loaded her up in a stroller and taken her to feed the ducks just last month, right?

He couldn’t look away.

He watched as Cece’s shoulders tensed slightly and he saw from the back of her head that she’d jerked her chin up just the tiniest bit. Not raised it, but jerked it.

The boy stopped, his eyes widening a bit, shifting around as if looking for something. His Adam’s apple moved, up, down, once, twice.

Then the boy stuck his hand out and Jim watched Cece’s shoulders relax as she and the boy shared an enthusiastic handshake. The boy’s face lost a bit of the tension and Jim saw him grin.

They separated and parted with a wave. Cece turned and ran to Jim, her cheeks stained with a flush he was sure could be attributed to more than just the sun.

“Ready, Dad?” she asked with a bit of impatience, as though Jim had been the one keeping her waiting. She jogged toward the car.

“Who was…” Jim started to ask as he caught up, but Cece cut him off before he could get three words out.

“Can we stop for ice cream?” she asked. “I’m dying for soft serve.

Jim laughed. He should have known better. Pam would get a kick out of this story.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Yeah, ice cream sounds like a great idea.”

Jim swatted at a mosquito as he pulled up weeds around the zucchini plants in the garden. He’d discovered a green thumb several years back and the money saved by being able to grow their own produce, at least part of the year, had the Halperts pretty darn close to set for a romantic getaway to Italy after Christmas.

The grandmothers had volunteered to take the kids for a few weeks.

“You two haven’t had more than a few days alone in 15 years,” his mother had pointed out. “You deserve a vacation.”

“Trust me,” her mother had warned, “Spend some time just the two of you before the kids leave home so you’ll remember how to do it when they’re grown.”

So late nights had been spent perusing websites, and listening to Pam tease him good naturedly about how, no, she was absolutely not going to hang on to the back of a Vespa, and how a grown man driving a Vespa, even in Italy, unless he was A) Italian and B) wearing white linen trousers and a partially unbuttoned shirt, was beyond ridiculous.

He had to admit, he couldn’t wait. He knew they’d miss the kids like crazy but the time that was just him and Pam was so rare, he knew it was okay to look forward to some privacy.

Before Jim could lose himself in a reverie of Italian fantasies, the back door opened and shut. Loudly.

“What’s up, Slammer?” He called out without looking up. Somehow his oldest couldn’t get the concept of closing doors gently through her head.

“Dad, Lila just called and invited me to the beach today. Can I go?”

Jim knew that tone. She wasn’t really asking.

He looked up. “With her family?”

She sighed noisily, exasperatedly, and blew her bangs out of her face. “Does it matter?” she replied testily, and the warning bells started to go off.

“Yes,” he replied, standing up. “Who are you going to the beach with?”

Cece rolled her eyes. “I don’t know. Thad and some other people from school?”

Oh, that teenage up speak. He wanted to send her to elocution classes every time she made statements as if they were questions.

But for now, there was a more important matter at hand.

“Who’s Thad?” Jim asked. “I’ve never heard of him.”

Again went the eyes. “Lila’s boyfriend?” And the up speak. “They’ve been going out for, like, six weeks.”

As he recalled, six weeks in teenage dating years was the equivalent to about five years in adult time.

“Is April driving?” He queried. April was Lila’s older sister, a rising college freshman who planned to live at home while attending Marymount. She’d baby sat for the twins a number of times, and was one of the few teenagers Jim trusted behind the wheel.

“No,” Cece replied snottily, “Thad’s driving. He’s a junior. He got his license in March. And don’t even say-”

“Nope,” Jim cut her off. “You know the rules. No riding in a car with someone we don’t know and no riding in a car with someone who’s had a license less than six months.”

Ever since an accident involving some students at Pam’s school last year, they’d been very strict about Cece and cars.

He knew they were probably being too careful, but even his brother Tom, in a rare genuine moment, had said: “It’s your kid, Jim. What are you going to do except try to keep her safe?”

“Ever since that stupid accident at Mom’s stupid school, you two have been psycho paranoid about driving,” Cece yelled. “It’s retarded.”

Jim crossed his arms. “Watch your mouth, young lady,” he warned, “and two kids died in that stupid accident and another one is going to be in a wheelchair for the rest of his life, so our ‘psycho paranoia,’ as you call it, is merited.”

She scoffed, open mouthed.

Jim raised an eyebrow. “I’m about two seconds away from saying you’re not going to the beach at all,” he informed her, “if you don’t adjust that attitude of yours.”

“So what am I supposed to do,” she demanded, “if you won’t let me ride with Thad and Lila? Ride my bike there?”

“I’ll drive you to the beach,” he said. “You can take the phone and call me to pick you up when you’re ready to come home.”

The look on her face was a combination of about to throw up and a dead body just fell out of the closet. It was a look he had vague recollection of seeing on his sister’s face many years ago.

“No,” Cece screamed, shaking her head. “I am not having my dad drop me off and pick me up like I’m some infant when everyone else in the world gets to drive with their friends like normal human beings. I’ll drop dead of embarrassment.”

He so loved these moments of drama.

“No one ever died of embarrassment, Cecelia,” he informed her, his patience wearing thin. “Those are your options. I drive you or no beach.”

He knew he should tell her she couldn’t go, strictly on account of her behaving like such a brat, but frankly he wouldn’t mind her getting out of the house for a few hours at this point.

“You don’t care about me at all,” she screamed in tearful frustration. “I hate you!”

She flounced back into the house, slamming the door extra hard as her words hit Jim and settled in his stomach with a thud.

He felt kind of sick.

It must have been hundreds of times that he’d snuck down these stairs for a late night snack as a teenager.

Now, thirty-plus years later, he was still tiptoeing in his socks, stepping carefully over the ninth step to avoid the creaking sound and making his way into the kitchen, leftover spinach lasagna on the brain.

As he stepped into the kitchen, he discovered someone else had beaten him to the punch.

“What are you doing up?’

Cece jumped, gasping loudly as she turned around. “Shit, Dad! Sorry. You scared me.”

He let the swearing slide. She was pretty good about not using obscenities too much, and he and Pam were of the mind that it wasn’t really the words but the intention behind them that mattered.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked instead. “Don’t let Mom catch you with that,“ he added, gesturing to the jar of peanut butter and the spoon she’d stuck into it.

She shrugged sheepishly and reached into the bread box. “I know, I know. Why are you up?”

Her turning the tables tone of voice wouldn’t be effective for at least 15 more years.

“Lasagna,” Jim smirked, moving to the refrigerator and taking out the pan. He cut a piece on to a plate and started the microwave. Cece spread peanut butter on two slices of bread.

When the timer dinged, he pressed the End button quickly so as not to wake Pam or the twins.

“Come on,” he said, gesturing to the table. She carried both plates as he went to the fridge again.

“Milk, please?” she requested, and Jim nodded. He pulled a half open bottle of Chianti out as well - Pam loved chilled red wine and he’d developed a taste for it too - and poured himself a glass. He filled a glass of milk for Cece and brought both glasses to the table.

For a few moments, there was silence except for the sounds of chewing and swallowing. Cece’s tongue snuck out to lick some peanut butter from her lips.

“Dad?”

“Hmmm?”

She gestured to his wine glass. “Can I try?”

Jim hesitated a minute and then pushed the glass toward her. “Sure.”

He watched as she took a sip and held the wine in her mouth, her lips pursing a bit. She didn’t look pleased.

“So?” he asked.

She gulped, swallowing it down, and reached quickly for her milk.

“Kind of… sour tasting,” she remarked, taking another bite of her bread and peanut butter.

He nodded. “It’s an acquired taste.”

Neither said anything else for another minute or two, just sat in comfortable silence. The clock on the microwave changed from 1:13 to 1:14 in the morning.

“Dad?”

“Yeah, Cee?”

She swallowed a couple of times and chewed her lip. He knew she was gearing up to ask something. He tried to anticipate what she wanted. A credit card? Permission to go to some rave (did kids still go to raves?)? A car for her upcoming 16th birthday?

He hoped it wasn’t something too outlandish.

“Am I allowed to drink?”

Definitely not what he’d anticipated.

“What?”

She took a sip of her milk. “I mean, other kids drink. At parties and stuff.”

There hadn’t been too many “parties and stuff” yet, but they were starting to come more frequently.

“Do you?” he asked, and it wasn’t an accusation, but a genuine question.

She sighed. “I had a beer once,” she admitted. “Or really, I held a beer and drank a little, because beer is gross. I don’t get why you like it so much.”

He chuckled. “I like good beer. And when you’re older, we’ll have a good beer together.”

Cece gave a half smile. “Are you mad?” She took another bite.

Jim paused a moment before answering. “No,” he said, and it was the truth. “All right, the drinking thing?”

She nodded.

“I know some of your friends do it,” he said. “And I’m not going to pretend I didn’t drink a little when I was a teenager.”

Cece smiled a bit.

“Plus I know that if I tell you something’s forbidden, you’ll want to run out and do it more,” he added, “so here’s what I’ll tell you.”

He set down his fork and she leaned forward a bit.

“I’m going to trust you to be responsible,” Jim informed his daughter, looking directly at her. “I’m going to trust that you will never get into a car with someone who’s been drinking, even a little, and that you’ll never drive anywhere yourself if you’ve had anything to drink.”

She nodded.

“If you’re curious about trying something,” he continued, “I’d rather you come to me or Mom and ask us.”

“Corrie said she likes screwdrivers,” Cece replied. She smirked.

Jim laughed to himself at the memory of “Orange Vodjuicekas.” The kids knew their parents had been part of a documentary, but they weren’t impressed. Cece had been more curious about Jim and Pam’s courtship of late, though. He thought maybe he’d dig up the Blu Rays.

That was for another time though.

“If you want to try a screwdriver,” he told her, focusing on the conversation at hand. “I’ll make one and you can taste it. I’d rather be here and be able to take care of you if you don’t react well to something than have you go out to parties and sneak a bunch of alcohol.”

Cece nodded slowly. “Okay…” She sounded like she wasn’t quite sure of the catch.

“But that doesn’t mean,” he clarified, “that it’s okay to go into the liquor cabinet by yourself. And there’s definitely no drinking here with friends. If you want to taste something, ask me or Mom and we’ll give you a little, but I’m not taking responsibility like that for someone else’s kid. That’s non-negotiable. Clear?”

Cece nodded. “Clear,” she replied, in a tone indicating she knew objecting wasn’t an option.

Jim nodded back, praying he was saying the right things.

“And I know it would be naïve of me to expect that you wouldn’t drink at a party every now and then,” he continued, “but I want you to promise me that if you do, you’ll call me to come pick you up, no matter what time it is.”

Oh god, how he prayed he was saying the right things.

Cece looked doubtful.

“You won’t get in trouble,” he said. “The important thing is for you to be safe. If we have reason to be concerned, we’ll address it, but Mom and I trust you.”

That trust word had worked wonders with him as a kid. In retrospect, “I trust you” was the smartest thing his father had said to him as a teenager. Of course, the line had worked on him and Larissa, but had brought about the opposite of the desired effect with Pete and Tom. So fifty-fifty.

Hopefully, his odds would be better.

Cece nodded again. “Okay,” she agreed. “Cool.”

She stuck out her hand solemnly and Jim shook it.

They went back to their food. He speared a forkful of lasagna. She took a bite of her sandwich.

She swallowed and pushed her plate toward him.

“Want a bite?”

He looked up and grinned at her.

“Sure, baby girl.”

She made a damn fine peanut butter sandwich, his kid.

“There’s been an accident.”

These were, he’d learned, the four scariest words in the world.

At 3:54, Jim had been on the phone with a client when the company’s executive assistant, Claire, had entered, her face pale.

“Just a moment, please,” he’d said to the client, clicking the phone to hold. “Claire?”

She’d looked grave. “Jim, the other line is for you. It’s an emergency.” She’d swallowed. “It’s the hospital.”

His stomach had dropped, his mind racing with all the possibilities.

“Pick up with Mr. Olsen, tell him I’ll call him back,” he’d said. She nodded and left. He took a deep breath, wiped his sweating palms on his pants and picked up the phone.

“Jim Halpert.”

“Mr. Halpert,” a calm voice came over the phone. “My name is Patricia Hull. I’m calling from Moses Taylor Hospital. There’s been an accident, sir.”

He felt sick. And why the hell wasn’t this Patricia Hull saying anything else?

“What happened?”

“Your daughter, Cecelia Halpert…”

He didn’t hear anything after that.

****

The next thing he knew, he was being escorted down a long hallway by a surly nurse in pink and purple teddy bear scrubs that could not be a worse match for her demeanor.

He had next to no recollection of leaving the office.

He assumed he must have driven to the hospital.

He vaguely remembered calling Pam, who was at a counselors’ conference in Philadelphia. He was pretty sure she'd said something about catching the first train.

He wasn’t sure if he’d actually gone Shirley MacLaine on the desk nurse or if that had been a dream.

When the nurse pulled back the curtain surrounding a bed in the emergency exam area and he saw Cece, Jim snapped back to reality.

She was lying on a gurney, her head immobilized by a bright orange neck brace. Her right arm was also in a brace, placed across her stomach. She held it gingerly with her left arm. There were bruises on her face.

“Cece,” he gasped.

At the sound of his voice, she burst into tears. “Daddy,” she cried, trying to sit up and crying harder from the pain.

“Stay still,” the nurse ordered, briskly but not unkindly as Jim rushed to Cece’s side.

“Lie still, sweetheart,” he soothed, stroking her hair. “Daddy’s here. I’ve got you.” He leaned down to press soothing kisses to her forehead, trying to quiet her sobs. “You’re okay, baby, you’re okay.”

He continued to stroke Cece’s head as he looked at the nurse. “What happened?”

She looked at the chart in her hand. “Looks like she ran her car into a tree,” she said. “The paramedics said they located a cell phone on the floor by the gas pedal. You know how kids are with their texting…”

Cece sobbed again and Jim‘s heart wrenched. “Daddy, I’m so sorry,” she cried, “the car…”

He shook his head. “I don’t care about the car,” he insisted. “You’re what’s important to me.”

“But you told me not text while I was in the car and I swear I was just looking for a second and…”

“Hey, hey,” he shushed her. “We’ll talk about it later, okay? All I care about right now is making sure you’re okay.”

They would have a good talk later, that was certain, about being responsible behind the wheel, but now wasn’t the time.

He kissed her head again and she cried harder.

“Shhhh, shhhhh,” Jim soothed. “Don’t be scared, baby, you’re okay. Daddy’s going to keep you safe.”

As he ran his hand over the top of her head, the curtain was pushed back and a white haired man in blue scrubs and a white lab coat entered.

“Hello,” he said, his tone pleasantly soothing. “I’m Dr. Thompson; I‘m the attending. Cecelia Halpert?”

“Yes,” she squeaked.

The doctor looked to Jim. “Mr. Halpert?” He extended a hand.

“Yes,” Jim replied, shaking the doctor’s hand quickly. He was glad to have someone older attending to Cece. Some doctors looked like they were barely out of high school and that just made him nervous. He didn’t need Doogie Howser working on his kids.

“All right,” Dr. Thompson said in his calm tone. “The X-rays show no damage at all to Cecelia’s spine, head or neck. That’s very good news.” Jim breathed a sigh of relief. “You might have some muscle strain though, Cecelia,” he indicated, “so you’ll have to wear a brace for a week or so-” -- she groaned - “but I promise we’ll get you one that’s a little more stylish than that thing.”

“Why is her face bruised?” Jim asked, and his fiercely independent 16-year-old didn’t snap at him for speaking on her behalf, content to let her father take care of her.

“Probably from the airbag,” Dr. Thompson said. “I know it looks bad, but if she’d hit the steering wheel, it’d be a lot worse. The bruising will subside in a few days.”

“And her arm?”

“Minor fracture to the ulna,” he replied. “We’ll put her in a cast and she’ll be good as new in about eight weeks. Her emergency card indicated no allergies other than strawberries and consent to treat in an emergency. We gave her a Demerol injection for the pain. She might have some dizziness, a little blurred vision, but she seems to be handling it very well.”

Jim nodded, running his hand over Cece’s head. “Any other injuries, doctor? Has she been checked for internal bleeding? Are all her organs okay? Anything she needs, MRI, CAT scan, whatever you have to do. I’m insured. I don’t care about the money. You just take care of my little girl.”

At his words, Cece, clearly fragile from her ordeal and, Jim knew, probably feeling guilty, started to cry again.

“Cecelia’s been thoroughly checked, Mr. Halpert,” Dr. Thompson, who clearly had a lot of experience dealing with hysterical parents, assured. “All her scans came back clean. As soon as we get the cast on her arm and get her fitted for a neck brace, you can take her home.”

Jim shook his head. “No,” he insisted. “No, I want her to stay here overnight. I want you to watch her.”

Cece thumped her heel against the gurney. “Daddy, no,” she protested. “Don’t leave me here.”

He dropped kisses on top of her head. “No one’s leaving you, baby,” he insisted. “Mommy’s on her way from her conference and Grandma or Aunt Isobel can stay with Nattie and Alex. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Mr. Halpert,” the doctor said, “truly, it’s not necessary for Cecelia to be admitted overnight. This really was a very minor car accident. I know it looks bad, but she’s sustained no serious injuries, no damage to her organs or spine. The biggest problem is the broken arm and that should heal very cleanly. The neck brace is a precaution and the facial bruising is superficial. There’s no bruising to any bones in Cecelia’s face or jaw, no major contusions…”

Jim shook his head. “I’ve heard about patients getting sent home too early and it turns out they were bleeding in their brains and they…”

“Mr. Halpert,” Dr. Thompson interrupted him, his tone firm but soothing. “I understand your concern, sir, I really do.” He smiled gently. “Look, I appreciate that you’re worried, Mr. Halpert. I have four children of my own, and if I were you, I’d be doing the same thing. I have done the same thing, in fact.”

The doctor nodded.

“Look, why don’t I admit Cecelia and I’ll continue to observe her for the next several hours? If there’s any reason at all to keep her overnight, I promise you we’ll do so for the most minor cause. But if she progresses as expected, you can take her home tonight, okay?”

“Dad, I want to go home,” Cece piped up.

Jim sighed. “I really think she should stay overnight,“ he told the doctor. “I don’t want to take any risks.”

Dr. Thompson nodded. “I assure you,” he said, “Cecelia is getting the best possible care. Let’s just see how she’s doing in a few hours, and if I think she needs further observation, I’ll keep her longer.”

Cece was quiet. Jim could see she was starting to drift off, probably from the injection she’d been given. He brushed her bangs off her forehead.

“Is that safe?” he asked. “Should she stay awake?”

Dr. Thompson shook his head. “There’s no concussion,” he said. “She’s perfectly safe.”

The doctor patted Cece’s leg and Jim’s shoulder.

“A nurse will come and move Cecelia to a room,” he said, “and a resident will get the cast and brace set. Then we’ll get her a prescription for some pain pills. And we’ll watch her for a while.”

Jim nodded, reaching to shake the doctor’s hand. “Thank you, Doctor,” he said.

Dr. Thompson nodded. “Don’t worry, Mr. Halpert,” he said. “Your daughter’s being taken care of.”

With a final reassuring smile, he left the curtained off area. Jim knew he’d been acting like Paranoid Psycho Parent, but what was he supposed to do?

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” Cece whimpered drowsily. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“I know, Cee,” he said softly. “We can talk about it later.”

“Daddy?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“I’m so tired.”

Jim leaned down, pressing his lips to Cece’s hairline. “Just rest, sweet girl,” he murmured. “Daddy’s here.”

It wasn’t that he waited up for her. Not exactly.

It was just that he could never quite fully sleep until he knew they were all where they were supposed to be.

So when he heard the car engine as it came into the drive, the click of the front door and the pad of her footsteps on the stairs, he breathed a little easier.

With practiced ease, he shifted Pam gently from where she lay against his chest and slipped out of bed, padding quietly across the room.

Her door was closed and he knocked softly, not wanting to wake the twins, whose rooms were right across the hall from Cece’s.

“Come in,” she called.

When he opened the door, he was hit by a smell he remembered from… let’s just say his college days. And maybe his twenties. And possibly after that as well.

“I swear,” Cece said, seeing his recognition, “I didn’t smoke. A lot of people had joints at the party, but I didn’t. The smoke just stank up my clothes.”

He nodded, believing her. Cecelia was no perfect child, but she was honest, and she didn’t try to hide things from her parents.

For the most part.

But Jim was aware that while she was almost certainly telling the truth about why she smelled like a Grateful Dead concert, she was definitely trying to pull one over on him with the way she was striking a seemingly casual pose, her head tilted to the left and her hand conspicuously covering the side of her neck.

He raised an eyebrow.

“What?” she asked, playing ignorant.

He shook his head.

“Neck hurt?”

Fortunately, she had the grace to blush as she removed her hand, revealing a fairly sizeable red and purple bruise near the juncture of her neck and shoulder.

Yeah, not something he needed to see. Jim considered himself a reasonable father and a progressive man. He was willing to admit that his daughters would probably get kissed.

Some day.

Like their wedding days.

When they were in their thirties.

That was perfectly reasonable, right?

He sighed. “I’m guessing you’re not going to tell me you were attacked by a band of vampires on your way home?”

Cece bit her lip and shuffled her feet, her hand moving back up to cover the mark. “Nothing else happened, I swear.”

“You’re doing an awful lot of swearing tonight, Cee,” he remarked, raising his eyebrows at her.

“I know, I know,” she said quickly, her voice rising in pitch a bit. “But seriously, I didn’t smoke and I didn’t…gah… you know… just trust me, Dad.”

“I do trust you,” he acknowledged. “It’s those idiot boys…”

Cece rolled her eyes and sighed in loud exasperation. “They’re not idiots, Daddy!”

Now it was his turn to execute a perfect eye roll. “Yes, they are,” he informed her. “I was one once upon a time. I remember.”

And again. He was really afraid her eyes would get stuck one day.

“Look,” he said, wanting more than anything to not have this talk, “if you’re going to be having-” he hesitated at the word - “sex-”

“Ew.”

“Then you need to be-”

“Oh god, stop,” Cece demanded, looking ill and waving her hands frantically. “I’m not, I’m not, I promise. I never have.”

Well, thank goodness for small favors.

But still…

“Good,” he said, breathing a sigh of relief. “That’s…that’s good. But if you do, and you shouldn’t, until you’re much older and in a committed relationship, you have to be safe and-”

“Dad, seriously,” she begged. “Mom had this talk with me like a million years ago. And there’s condom signs at school. Look, I’m not going to do anything stupid. I don’t want a baby or some disease. And I don’t want to have to have an abortion like Ava. Okay, just please trust me?”

He nodded. “I do, Cee,” he sighed. “I just want you to be careful. You can have the best intentions, but you’re young and sometimes that means you can make stupid mistakes or be careless and I just-”

She laughed.

“What?”

“You’re one to talk about careless mistakes,” she accused. “I was born, what, four months after you and Mom got married?”

“We were adults.”

“And I’ll be an adult in six months.”

Jim shook his head. “No, no you will not be. Being an adult is so much more than just turning 18. Trust me, you will not be an adult in six months. You won’t be an adult in six years.” He sighed. “It’s late. Just… be careful, okay? And cover that up tomorrow. You need to set a good example for Natalie.”

Cece gaped, aghast.

“Me, set a good example?” she demanded, her voice rising. “We could hear you and Mom in her studio when we came home from the movies last week. Maybe you should set a good example.”

It wasn’t that she didn’t have a point, it was that there were times Jim felt it his right to play the Dad card, and this was one of them.

“Hey,” he whispered loudly. “I’m the parent, you‘re the child. I’ll worry about my own conduct, thank you.”

Cece rolled her eyes. “I’m not a little kid, Dad.”

He regarded her, at nearly 2:30 in the morning, standing in front of him wearing tight jeans with a low cut halter top, her wavy hair in a messy twist and way too much makeup. He looked at the bite mark on her neck and smelled the pot on her clothes, and he wondered where the hell the time had gone.

“I know,” he sighed. “Quit reminding me.”

In more than 30 years, not much had really changed about the hallway of a college dorm. At least, from what Jim could tell.

When he’d been 18 himself, if he had thought about taking his own kid to college, which was about the last thing he’d been thinking about when he was 18, he might have imagined metal pods, students in silver jumpsuits, classes taught by holograms and vending machines filled with brightly colored capsules.

But really, it looked pretty similar to what he remembered.

“The more things change, the more they stay the same,” his mother used to quote.

And so, as Jim had learned time and time again, especially in the years he’d been a parent, his mother and his father actually had known what they were talking about.

He was thinking about how, in the years to come, Cece, Nattie and Alex would each have this realization themselves, over and over again, when the door to room 211 opened.

“Dad? I thought you left.”

He dug into his pocket, pulling out his wallet. “Um, your mother wanted to be sure you had enough cash,” he said, extracting several twenties and pressing them into Cece’s hand. “You won’t have your new ATM card for a few days.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Dad? You’re full of shit.”

“Hey!” he barked. “Watch your mouth, young lady.”

Not that she was wrong, per se, but she was still his kid.

Cece rolled her eyes. “Fine,” she conceded. “You’re… whatever the polite, appropriate version of ‘full of shit’ is. You already gave me money like twenty minutes ago. Mom gave me money, plus I have the credit card.”

He nodded and leaned against the door frame. She did the same on the opposite side, their forms - his tall and not quite as lean as he’d been 20 years ago, but still slender, hers shorter, with her mother’s softness - mirroring each other.

“Good point,” he said, holding out his hand and suppressing a smile. “Give me my eighty bucks back.”

Cece pursed her lips. “Well, you know, maybe I should have some extra, just in case there’s an emergency.”

Jim laughed. “Yeah,” he said, “you’re probably right.” He looked around. “You sure you don’t need me to help you set anything up? You want to loft your bed or something, get some storage space under it? Anything you need to shop for? Is that mini-fridge we got you working? Do you have enough…”

Cece stepped forward and stood up on her tiptoes, wrapping her arms around Jim’s neck.

“Dad,” she insisted, her voice muffled against his polo shirt, “I have everything I need.”

He sighed, returning her hug tightly. “You sure?”

“Mmmhmmm,” she mumbled, nodding. They pulled apart and Jim took Cece’s face between his palms, stooping down a little so he could make eye contact.

“Don’t get pregnant,” he instructed.

She rolled her eyes. “Dad…”

“Don’t get an STD,” he continued. “Don’t get hospitalized. Don’t get arrested…”

“Okay, I think I can…”

“Don’t fail out,” he concluded.

Cece nodded. “Okay,” she said ruefully. “I think I can handle that.”

Jim straightened up, but kept one hand on her cheek. “Have fun,” he told her. “Be careful. Call if you need anything. We’re only a few hours away. Call even if you don’t need something, because we want to hear from you.”

She nodded solemnly. “I will.”

He patted her cheek and bent down to kiss the top of her head. “Love you, baby girl.”

Cece looked up at him with wide blue eyes. “Love you, Daddy.”

With a final look and a nod, he turned to walk down the hall, leaving her behind.

Three steps and he turned around again.

“Remember to lock your door,” he called. “It’s not safe to…”

“Dad,” she yelled. “Go!”

Jim chuckled. He moved down the corridor, passing students and parents, and made his way outside to the waiting minivan, opening the door and climbing into the passenger seat.

“You blamed me, didn’t you?” Pam asked ruefully, raising her eyebrows at him from the driver’s seat.

Jim shrugged. “You want me to drive?” he asked, intentionally ignoring her question.

She shook her head. “Nah,” she said. “I’ll take the first shift.”

He nodded and leaned his head against the seat back, staring into her eyes. She stared back and they gazed at each other, as if to say “How did we get here?” and “When did she grow up?” and “Did we do it all right?” and a million other things they didn’t say, because they didn’t have to.

Jim leaned forward, and Pam met him halfway, and they kissed softly.

Until someone leaned on their horn behind them and they pulled apart, laughing.

“Okay,” Jim agreed. “Time to go.”

They drove away.