Mads and Regina left each other early the next morning, kissing at the door before getting in their respective vehicles and driving to their destinations. Mads lived relatively close, roughly five hours from her dad's which she pulled into at roughly ten in the morning.
Her house was filled with more family friends than family. No one from her mother's side was there, including her mother. She liked it that way. She didn't talk about her mother. Her dad's two brothers and sister was there, as well as two of her cousins who were both her age. The rest of the many people present were family friends, mostly people who worked with her father at the rail yard.
Maxwell Somerton wrapped his daughter in a warm hug when she arrived. He had the stereotypical look of working class man down to a tee. His idea of dressing up for church and Thanksgiving was a polo and khakis. Otherwise we wore jeans and flannel when he went to work as a train mechanic at the rail yard. A thick mustache and short hair, glasses from age, a portly pot belly, and working boots.
Mads didn't know her father until she was fourteen. Her mother sent her to live with him at very short notice and they had a lot of growing pains. Her mother generally spoiled her, so when she went to live with him, she was in conflict with his earn your place mentality immediately. Both of their tempers flared in her teen years, the only years he had with her before college.
"Want a car? Pay for half and learn to fix it before you get it. Insurance is on you too."
"Want a cellphone. Pay for the phone and I'll pay for the family plan, any excess of texts or calls is on you."
This was a huge shock for a girl so far raised under 'Mommy I want' actually getting things. 'Daddy I want' not so much.
Like a stern sitcom dad, he even had a catch phrase. 'So what?'
Whether or not it was always his saying or one he developed when he was her sole parent she didn't know, but she knew it drove her crazy growing up. Most of her trivial wants her mother would permit, were instead met with 'So what?'
"Madison doesn't want to do the dishes. So what?"
"Madison doesn't want to do her homework before television. So what?"
It wasn't until Mads was sixteen, having been living with him from two years she realized he was there for the important things unlike her mother. For her softball games she knew he'd be in the stands. He'd call a favor and work a double the next day if needed. He helped with school, and he was much smarter than he looked. His bookshelves were littered with history books, mostly military history, and philosophy. Who says a mechanic can't read Plato, Socrates, Aristotle, Kant, Smith, and Rand?
Mads remembers one day that was a real turning point in their relationship. She got into a fight at school her sophomore year. A boy said something, alluding to her sexuality, and she punched him in the face. It was broken up and she was suspended, Maxwell having to pick her up from the principal's office.
At first he was fuming when he arrived. He had to get off work and lose a few hours, but the moment he saw her through the window of the hallway into the office, he knew anger wasn't a means of speaking with her. She wasn't angry, she was legitimately hurt by what the boy had said.
Maxwell walked into the office and spoke to the principal and was updated on what the boy said. The physical assault led to a suspension that was the compromise for the boy's parents not pressing charges, which Maxwell thought was preposterous for kids getting into a fight.
"Madison," Maxwell said, Mads not looking up. She knew she was about to get yelled at for not responding to him, but still didn't. Instead he crouched to her face, making her look up and into his eyes. "Let's get some food."
Maxwell took them to the local diner where they ordered breakfast for lunch, Mads mostly silent the entire time. Her responses were single words or small phrases.
"What did he say to you?" Maxwell said, Mads shrugging.
"Nothing," Mads said.
"Nothing. You punched someone in the face for nothing? That's not you. You're not above punching someone, but you typically need a reason," He said, Mads looking at her orange juice that she took a gulp from a second ago.
"He asked me out," Mads said, and Maxwell laughed a little.
"I love the idea of you punching boys who are too forward, but why do I feel you are telling me half of the story?" Maxwell asked.
"I said no, and he called me a dyke," Mads said.
"That's very rude, but why does make you so mad?"
"I don't want to talk about this," Mads said, looking away.
Maxwell reached his hand across the table and placed it on hers. She looked up at him and saw his smile.
"When you do. I'm right here."
A few months later Mads came into the living room from her bedroom upstairs, the last stair creaking like it always did. She hated that stair. Two years of sneak out attempts ruined by a faulty piece of lumber she was almost certain he never fixed on purpose. Maxwell lowered the book from his face, and turned to her, her arms in front of her, her left hand holding her right forearm.
"Dad," Mads started, getting his attention immediately. Very rarely had she called him dad instead of Maxwell. To her he was her dad by default.
"Yes?" Maxwell asked.
