“Dance with me, Daddy.”
I pretended I didn’t hear.
My five year old daughter was persistent.
“Kadence, I’m watching television.”
“Can’t you stop?”
The movie was a good one.
“Honey, I’ll dance with you some other time. Find something else to do, ok?”
She left without answering. Soon I caught the sound of rustling paper and click-clacking of crayons on the kitchen table.
Returning to the living room, she taped a sheet of paper on the end of the couch.
A few minutes later she called from the kitchen, “Daddy, did you read the note?”
“No, was I supposed to?”
“Yes. I wrote it for you.”
With my attention on the movie, I reached over and pulled the paper off the couch. In her childish scrawl, she had written:
On the bottom part of the paper was a drawing of two halves of a heart, colored in bright red.
Raising my voice, I said, “I read your note. Thanks. It’s really cute.”
She edged into the room, her little face serious.
“It’s not supposed to be cute, Daddy. It’s a broken heart. You broke my heart when you didn’t wanna dance with me.”