She always hoped for a relationship with her father like the ones she imagined of the models in picture frames. One where she would burst open the front door after an argument with a boy, run into her daddy’s arms and release the tears that she felt too proud to let go before. “There, there”, he would say. “It’ll be alright, dear”. Calm. Reassuring. Genuine. He’d teach her how to drive stick in a time when driving was less cool. She’d call him up on a Tuesday night, glass of merlot in hand, talking about the politics of a middle eastern country while nudging each other with a joke about their camping trip to Elora. He’d walk her down the aisle, kiss her gently on the cheek and whisper something soothingly sudo-poetic in her ear like, “The sun sets every evening, but only few take the time to soak in it”. She would always think that the philosophical insight didn’t reach the profoundness of the context, but still knew that there was nothing more perfect than those words at that moment. She’d tell him of memories she had when she was still a little girl where they would giggle together by making up silly names for the frogs by the pond. He’d smile, forgetting if the story was really true or if it even mattered. She’d visit him in the hospital, broken by the shell of the man once consumed with the relentless breath of life. Strong. Powerful. Invincible. She’d cry. He’d smile and nudge her with a joke about their camping trip to Elora. She’d spit in laughter, tears filled with joy and sadness rolling down her face. He was her idol, her hero, her home. She’d honour him by giving the same love and devotion to her own kin. This is the relationship she wished for, like the ones she imagined of the models in picture frames.

Her father in actuality was a weak man. He was a smile with big piece of lettuce stuck in between teeth. Always uncomfortable regardless of his intentions. She never thought he was the deadbeat dads she’d read of in books about girls that overcame their histories. He was way worse. He’d take her to the park and pay half attention to his phone. He didn’t give her the decency of being something worth hating. Worth growing from. He was a stale loaf of bread you kept in the freezer. They’d take family trips together that he’d spend his worked money on. They’d go to Florida for the beaches. He’d order beef tacos knowing she was a vegetarian. He was oblivious and ignorant. She’d tell him about a refugee crisis in Laos. He used to protest, to raise money, to organize, he’d tell her. She believed him, knowing it was worse that he’d sold out or stopped caring or didn’t have the will to keep a flame alive. He’d give her a card every birthday, picked out from a drug store, written by someone else about something vaguely passing for a sentiment on love with a scribble below the typed out words from him saying, “Best wishes sweetie and happy trip around the sun! Love your dad.” Yuck. Soulless. Boring. He stepped on her toes during her father/daughter dance at the wedding. She was pretty sure he stole the joke in his speech from a shitty movie they watched in a Mariott hotel in Buffalo. He was pathetic and had no idea. They described him as nice. Helpful. Accomplished. She cried out of formality. She looked at her young child and felt awful for the thought. “I won’t be like him”.

My daughter sleeps beside me. Her eyelashes are hanging low on her face, stomach slowly rising and falling with her breath. I’d be surprised if a dream could keep anything that still. Innocence and purity. I imagine the girl depicted above haunted by scenarios of fictional future versions of myself. None real, but none devoid of any truth. I don’t drive stick and never will, but we won’t vacation to Florida.

When will I disappoint her?

I take a breath, hold it in and release. I look back at her sleeping self, a toddler enamoured by the world and I cuddle into the moment secretly hoping she never grows old.