“Did you see that, Daddy?
See what I did?
Are you proud of me?”
She looks up at him as she says it, hoping for some response from him. Preferably a positive one. She watches him – longingly – and waits.
One-Mississippi. Two-Mississippi. Three-Mississippi.
She practically trips as he drags her around the corner into another aisle because she is still looking up at him as they walk.
Depending on his response, this is a question she could keep asking for years. A question she may ask to everyone she comes into contact with.
Especially any boy she dates
or almost-dates
or eventually marries.
“Of course,” he says, without looking down at her.
Finally.
Succinct.
Non-specific.
Generic.
Late.
And prodded.
She bites her lip and looks down at the floor.
Even at age six, she isn’t sure she can trust the answer. The words he says don’t match the rest of his response.
And she notices.
But she doesn’t dwell on it. She immediately starts thinking of other things she can do to win him over and make him proud of her.
She just needs to hear him say it – for real. She just has to find something she can do that will be impressive enough for him. Big enough for him.
She can’t wait to hear him say how proud he is of her.
There has to be something she can do.
*Fiction.