A Gift for Gumbo
I don’t often get to drop her off at school, but she successfully spent the better part of her breakfast hour lobbying incessantly about the the poor design and craftsmanship that went into her socks.
“Do you and mum talk about me when I’m not there?”
I was split on whether to answer her with sarcasm. She may not understand or she may not want to hear the harsh truth that her mother and I were generally too preoccupied with financial matters and decoding Westworld to think about her.
So I went with a neutral answer.
“Nope. I don’t think we ever even think about you, Gumbo.”
I may have delivered my answer with a wry smile, but she wasn’t looking my way. She continued staring out the window, expressionless, like she so often does when deep in thought.
Her little forehead wrinkled.
“Wait a second. That can’t be right,” I started up again. “We were actually just talking about what birthday gift to get you next month.”
Her face changed.
“Any ideas, Gumbo?”
“Cheating?!” I shot back. “I’m simply curious if there’s something you’ve been wanting recently. What… I can’t be curious”
“That’s not how you get gifts, Daddy. You’re supposed to listen extra close when I talk about things and then you’ll know exactly what I’m needing.”
“Gumbo, that seems unfair. Where are you getting these rules from?”
“Uhh… Well, Mum tells you that all the time?”
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