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With my wife Christine away for a week to take care of her nieces while her sister was recovering from surgery, Charlotte and I had the house to ourselves. That was fine, as I had been able to clear my work schedule so that I could be home much more than usual, specifically in the mid- and late-afternoons to spend some quality time with my daughter, something I had not been able to do since the summer before she had started middle school.
The fact that I had not been around so much made that Monday afternoon a bit awkward for us both. Since I did have one more work-related task to finish, I was sitting at the kitchen table with the work laptop when Charlotte came to the back door. I think she actually forgot that I would be there, because I heard her talking loudly on her cell phone as she came up the steps and crossed the porch, barely missing a beat as she opened the screen door and slid her key into the lock. Her first sight of me was when the door was about half-open, when she realized someone was sitting at the kitchen table and then her eyes met mine as my fingers continued typing from both muscle memory and a strong sense of what needed to be included in that particular report. That was when her conversation faltered a moment. ‘Uh, hi, Daddy.’
‘Welcome home, Muffin,’ I returned warmly, using the long-outworn pet name one of her cousins had pinned on her years earlier.
As Charlotte closed the door behind her, she blushed noticeably, which made me wonder what the conversation was truly about. She eyes me curiously once again, muttering ‘Uh, just a moment,’ into the cell phone, and then hurrying through the kitchen without even bothering to take off her backpack or her shoes. I almost said something about tracking the snow through the house, but I figured that it was not the right time to mention it, especially given how she had blushed. I simply sighed, listening to her quickly mounting the stairs and taking another sip of coffee as I heard the door to her bedroom close above me.
It took me only another ten minutes or so to finish the report and e-mail it to a client, then I found myself wondering about the conversation my presence had interrupted, about the blush which had further colored Charlotte’s cold-reddened cheeks. I ultimately told myself that it was because she was no longer accustomed to having me around so much. For years, I was a presence at dinner — maybe — and occasionally another member of the audience at a dance competition or at a school choir concert. Typically, the most I saw of Muffin was on the weekends, and even then it was usually in the mornings before we headed off to our activities for the day — which in her case typically meant spending the day working at a local mall.
I had forgotten about my daughter’s unusual return from school when I heard her bedroom door finally open again before she descended the stairs. A few moments later, she came into the living room as I was flipping channels, not particularly sure what was worth watching on television during a weekday late afternoon. ‘Should I make dinner tonight, Daddy?’ Charlotte asked.
That surprised me a little. I knew that she could cook a few things — Christine had certainly seen to that — but I had not truly thought much about what we would do for meals during my wife’s absence. ‘Sure, if you’d like,’ I answered, ‘or we could also order Chinese or a pizza, or perhaps go out tonight.’
She cocked her head slightly to the side, in that way she often did when weighing her options. ‘I’ll cook,’ she decided. ‘Dinner at 6?’
‘Sounds good.’
‘Okay.’ She turned to head toward the kitchen, then turned back to me. ‘Um, you probably won’t find much of interest on until Hardball starts.’
‘That may be true from what I’ve seen in the channel guide. At least I’ll get to watch Hardball live for once.’
Muffin smiled, then she did something she had not done in quite a long time: She moved behind my favorite recliner, bent down, kissed my cheek, and hugged me. It was a mundane father/daughter moment, yet it was also significant, for I had a hard time remembering when she had last given me either a hug or a kiss.
Ultimately, I turned off the television and closed my eyes. Seemingly seconds later, the scent of dinner roused me from my unintended slumber.
During dinner, conversation was initially sparse. In a way, it felt like I was dating again, going through the motions of feeling out the woman with whom I was sharing the meal. And that thought sparked another thought:
My daughter was a woman.
‘Um, Daddy?’
That shook me from my thoughts. Charlotte was a high school senior, graduating in just a few months — seemingly in just a few days — and then heading off to college a few months after that. While I had seen her briefly nearly every day for years, she had changed, she had transformed from the girl who wore pink dresses and pretty bows in her hair into a woman who was very similar to her mother both in form and in personality.
‘Sorry, Muffin,’ I apologized, feeling slightly warm — was I blushing? ‘I just realized that you’ve…’
‘That I’ve…?’ she prompted.
‘You’ve grown up. I mean, I’ve seen it, obviously, but somehow just never truly, consciously noticed it.’
‘Good. Then will you please stop calling me ‘Muffin?”
I smiled, then laughed, and she joined me, and somehow, that seemed to break the ice.
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