When we spoke, she said so.
“I waited.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Tomorrow on time?”
“That’s the plan. If something changes, I’ll tell you.”
The next night, I called on time.
She showed me a drawing.
Then became bored and handed the phone to her mother.
I was unexpectedly grateful.
She no longer needed to use every minute as though it had been purchased in advance.
By winter, the questions had changed.
At first, she asked:
“Is this free?”
Then:
“Can I ask?”
Eventually:
“Can I show you something?”
There was more confidence in that last question.
It assumed the thing she wanted to share belonged in the world.
It did not begin by defending the cost.
I still sometimes asked her to wait.
But I stopped treating waiting as a vague room into which a child could be placed until adulthood became convenient.
If I needed ten minutes, I said ten.
If I could not promise a time, I said that honestly and helped her find the person or support she needed.
And when I forgot, I acknowledged it.
I did not tell her good fathers never forgot.
She could see I did.
I needed to show her forgetting could be corrected without making the forgotten person feel foolish for expecting something.
One evening, she found me in the kitchen.
“Your ten was fifteen.”
I checked.
“You’re right.”
She folded her arms.
“I know.”
I put down the dish towel.
“Show me.”
She led me to a paper castle spread across the table.
The roof was crooked.
She wanted help making it stay.
I sat down.
For half an hour, I had a clear and important job.
Hold this.
Pass that.
Don’t touch the glue.
I followed instructions.
She approved.
It was an excellent way to spend an evening.
The next birthday dinner was smaller.
