When I came home yesterday afternoon, there were flowers on the table.
This isn't really unusual. About once a week or so for at least the last six months, my husband has brought me flowers. His office is close by a tiny little floral shop and the elderly proprietor has taken a liking to my spouse. All old women love my husband for some reason.
So he brings home small clusters of flowers. Not huge bouquets or anything. Just little handfuls. Usually daisies, which are my favorite.
These flowers are pink and yellow. I'm not sure what kind they are.
"Did daddy bring me flowers when he came home for lunch?" I asked the Boy Child, who was, as usual, pretty much up my butt the second I came through the door.
"Boy Child. There are flowers right there. See?" I even pointed, since he wasn't getting it.
"Well, maybe he brought them for you AND Girl Child," he said, trying to soothe my feelings. "But he said they were for Girl Child."
He bought flowers for my daughter. For no reason at all.
I feel sorry for Girl Child sometimes, I truly do. I would think that it would be difficult to have a sibling, a twin, that is SO outgoing and SO talkative. It's funny; when they were little she would always speak for him. Now, she can't get a word in edgewise.
She's the most precious girl. Sweet and loving and quietly funny. Her mind and her heart are so big. So are her dreams. She tells me she'll go to college. Adopt a baby from China. Someday, when she's much older, marry a man with a moustache.
Like this man, who is not biologically her daddy, but loves her enough to bring her flowers. Just for no reason at all. And for every reason in the world.