The least you’ll ever want is to have your six-year-old daughter walk into you crying. First, you think to hide the tears by rubbing your eyes while the other half of your brain rummages its archive of the surest threads of lie to spin, to convince her it isn’t what she thinks it is, that it is something else -the wind, except the windows are shut and the blinds drawn. Sure thing, it isn’t peppery hands because you are lying face up and your hands are nowhere close to your face, it isn’t a fly either. Certainly a fly doesn’t make both eyes that watery with hiccups and sobs.
Of course, she is your daughter and you know better when those big dreamy eyes stare with that intensity, sucking up even the tiniest detail.
Maybe today isn’t a day to hide.
Your shaky hands drop from your face as the tears stream down. Yes, you let it flow. Maybe it isn’t weak at all to let her into your innermost space, to let her know you aren’t that super.
“I’m so… sorry… baby,” you sob, trying to smile. “Some days are just really tough and mummy isn’t that strong”.
Her chubby arms round your neck feels warm.
“We’ll be alright, mummy,” she says, kissing your forehead.
You nod through sobs.
“I will always be here for you all the time. It’s we girls fighting”.
You chuckle, feeling a lot better.
She holds you, you hold her. You girls fighting. Her arms aren’t the brawniest but it is warmth, comfort. It is home.
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