Samantha comes back to me in the kitchen from carrying a message to her dad in another room, and airily declares, “Well, I didn’t tell him what you told me to tell him. I had something betterer to say.”
“Okay. What did you tell him?”
“I told him that I loved him SO MUCH!” It’s her story telling tone, the one usually reserved for tales of unicorns and princesses.
“Alright. What did he say?”
“He said he likes me so much, too. He said he likes me so much, he said, “Samantha, I like you so much, too. I like you so much I’m about to cry a little.” She isn’t even looking at me, she’s so wrapped up in the drama of her story, and her sweet daddy’s tears.
I answer, eyebrows up, “Is that really what he said?”
She sighs, “Oh. I don’t know. I don’t really remember what he said.”
And then she scowls, because I am wiping tears out of my eyes, and trying not to hurt myself with the chopping knife from giggling too much. She stomps out.