The Breakfast Blitz: A single dad grateful to be an educator

This column is a series of fiction stories inspired by reality. We publish short stories written by teachers each week. This week, a principal recounts her last week before summer break.

Mr. Harris—Coach H to most—had three full-time jobs: teaching sixth-grade science, coaching middle school football, and raising two little girls under the age of ten. And he did them all while running on coffee, four hours of sleep, and stubborn love.

Every weekday started the same. At exactly 5:23 a.m., Ruby—five years old, curly-headed, full of questions—would crawl into his bed and immediately kick him in the kidney. Then she’d whisper something like, “Dad? Are narwhals real?” before falling asleep on his chest like a weighted blanket.

By 5:35, Deliah would show up. Nine years old, always thinking three steps ahead, usually dragging a folder, a fact sheet, or her latest campaign to convince him they needed a puppy, despite having Ms. Millie, their 5-year-old Albino cat.

Despite it being in the wee hours of the day, Harris couldn’t refuse the girls. Instead, he’d turn on CNBC or CNN and watch the morning headlines while the girls got their most needed fifteen extra hours of sleep. And the reality was that as a single dad, he hadn’t woken up alone since 2018.

By 6:45, breakfast was a cereal-based negotiation, and he was rushing them into the car for drop-off before sprinting into Jefferson* Middle School with a tie over his shoulder and a lesson plan half-written on a napkin.

However, by second period, Harri was locked in.

“Jamal, my man,” he said, hands on his hips. “Did you really just hand me blank paper and tell me it was your lab report? That’s not invisible ink, bro, that’s air.”

The kids laughed and Jamal sulked back to his seat with the resignation that yes, he had to do his work. Coach H loved them for at least trying to write this challenging lab report on the topic of dissecting a frog in class last week.

“Chloe,” he said, shaking his head. “You told me you didn’t know the homework was due, but I wrote it on the board, said it twice, AND did a 60-second TikTok about what I was looking for. Do I really have to call your mom? Right now she’s in hour 2 of her 12 hour shift as a nurse and I don’t think she wants to hear about this.”

Chloe sulked back to her seat to try and finish her work before Coach H called her mom, for real this time. Yes, they drove him nuts, but teaching made him happy, and middle school kept him ready for the next apocalypse, with the drama and comedy that came with it.

Back in August, half of them didn’t know how to organize their binders or how to keep up with their books, all while being knee-deep in social media drama. By May, they were making complete sentences, using deodorant, and one even said, “Mr. Harris, I appreciate you.” He’d nearly cried. Right there, between the frog dissection lab report and the half-done homework with Takis stain on it, Coach H loved his job.

After the bell rang at 4:00 p.m., it was straight to the field for football practice, where he reminded the kids to keep their knees up, hold the ball tightly, and refrain from wrestling during water breaks.

By 6:30 p.m., Coach would  pick up Deliah and Ruby from aftercare and go home to start shift number three: dinner, homework, baths, bedtime.

By 8:45 p.m., he was sitting at the kitchen table grading papers, still wearing his whistle from practice.

“Photosynthesis spelled with an F,” he muttered, squinting at a paper. “Bold. Bold and brave.”

Ruby padded in with her blanket.

“Daddy, I need water.”

“You’ve had three cups. You’re turning into a mermaid.”

“I’m still thirsty. Also, Deliah said water can regenerate limbs and I don’t believe her.”

He gave her the water, kissed her forehead, and walked her back to bed.

By 9:30, he was making parent calls.

“Hey Mrs. Turner, it’s Coach Harris—DeAndre scored really great on the latest quiz. He’s been really focused. Also, I think he put a frog in my bag, but we’ll chalk that up to personal growth.”

By 10, he looked around at the chaos—backpacks, Barbie shoes, a lunchbox that smelled vaguely of regret—and sighed.

He didn’t have extra money, but his life was rich.  He was home every night. His girls loved him. He helped with spelling and tied cleats and sat in the front row at Ruby’s kindergarten sing-along, even though it meant missing his planning period. The kids at school respected him, and the football team has won the last two games. The new 2025 Truck he kept building on the dealership website wasn’t happening this year. 

And he wouldn’t trade that for heated seats and a sunroof.

On Father’s Day, he woke up to whisper-yelling.

“Deliah, that’s too much salt!”

“It’s called flavor, Ruby. He’s not a baked potato!”

A few minutes later, the girls came in carrying a tray. Two lopsided pieces of toast. Some very runny eggs. Bright pink bacon. Orange juice in a glittery plastic cup that said “#1 Diva.”

“Happy Father’s Day!” they shouted.

Deliah grinned. “We made it ourselves. You’re not allowed to do anything today.”

“Except watch Nailed It! with us,” Ruby added, already climbing into bed.

He looked at the tray. It was chaos. It was half-raw eggs and half-done bacon, but it was perfect.

He set the tray aside, pulled both girls close, and exhaled.

“This,” he said quietly, “is better than any new car.”

They curled into his side as he turned on the TV. For once, there was no rushing. No grading. No guilt.

Just him. His girls. His crumbs-in-the-bed breakfast.

And peace.