Daddies and Daughters

THEGIRL is so sweet when I pick her up from the daycare. She’s quick to tell everyone, “This is my Daddy.”

***

MOBB is working late this evening. I got such an early start on the day, and fatigue is such a factor at this point, that I felt fully justified in taking the kids out to eat.

Admittedly, it doesn’t take much justification sometimes.

The kids were so good, saying “please” and “thank you” to the waitress. They shared food, didn’t bicker, didn’t try to run around the place. I was proud when the waitress commented on how mature Wolfboy has become.

***

At a table across from us I watched a white-haired man and his grown daughter having dinner. He was serious, though he wore bright colors that belied an eccentric disposition.

She was beautiful in that studious way, like she’s some college professor whose husband loves her very much.

They spoke softly, though in earnest tones. The sense of history between them was palpable. There was respect, love, and some discomfort.

***

Daughters are supposed to be special to their daddies. Mine is.

Sometimes things don’t turn out like they should. I’ve seen it a lot.

***

And after those two left, another daddy-daughter duo came and sat in the same place. Again, she was beautiful, a dark-haired woman with Amer-Asian features. Her father was another quiet type. Their mood was a bit less serious as I speculated to myself about their relationship. They smiled a bit and spoke softly.

***

Not every story can be shared. I know many daughters who have had difficult or nearly-impossible relationships with their fathers. I happen to be the son of one.

It won’t be like that with my daughter and me. Not nearly.

***

I leave in the morning for Chicago, going on a short vacation.

And it’s wrong. It’s the wrong thing to do. I shouldn’t be on vacation this week, shouldn’t be in Chicago. I should be on bereavement leave, heading to my grandfather’s funeral.

I have no choice.

I have no choice.

I have no choice.

I have no choice.

***

And I do need this trip. It’s between semesters, and my last breather before another semester starts, a semester filled with classes and clients. This is when it all starts to take shape.

So I’m going to Chicago to lose myself, so to speak. I want to forget, to blow off some steam, to enjoy myself, to enjoy Hood’s company and just be a boy for a while.

A good boy, but a boy nevertheless.

I want to forget school and textbooks and downtrodden clients and sadness and guns and bullies and fevers and television and the things we say that we wish we could really take back and the things that sometimes mess things up for daddies and daughters.