Dad, you really shouldnt come round here any more, Emily told him, clutching her small hands on the table at the little café on Baker Street. Because when you leave, Mum starts crying. And she cries right through the night. I fall asleep, wake up, fall asleep again, and shes still wailing. Emily asked, Mum, why are you crying? Because of Dad? Her mother sniffed, wiping her nose with a tissue, and said she wasnt crying at alljust a runny nose. Emily, now seven and a seasoned observer of adult theatrics, knew that a nose that drips like that never sounds like a sob.
James, a lanky man in his late fifties, sat opposite his daughter, stirring a cooling cup of tea with a tiny spoon. The cup was almost as tiny as the dollsize biscuit tin that sat beside it. In front of Emily was a sundae that looked more like a work of art than a dessert: rainbow sprinkles tucked under a mint leaf, a cherry perched on top, all drenched in chocolate sauce. Any sixyearold would have dived in, but Emily stared at it with the same seriousness shed shown the previous Friday, when shed decided it was time for a proper chat with her dad.
James fell silent, the kind of silence that makes the clink of teaspoons sound louder than a brass band, before finally speaking.
What are we supposed to do, love? Stop seeing each other altogether? How am I supposed to survive then?
Emily wrinkled her cute little noseshaped almost like a tiny potato, just like Mumsand thought for a moment before answering.
No, Dad. I cant manage without you either. Heres the plan: call Mum and tell her youll pick me up from nursery every Friday. Then we can have a stroll, or if you fancy a coffee or an icecream (she gestures at her fancy sundae), we can sit right here. Ill fill you in on everything Mom and I get up to.
She paused, twirling a stray curl, then added, And if you ever want to keep an eye on Mum, Ill snap a picture of her on my phone each week and send it to you. Deal?
James looked at his daughters earnest face, gave a tiny smile, and nodded.
Alright, thats how well do it, then, sweetheart.
Emily let out a sigh of relief and finally dug into her sundae. Yet she wasnt quite finished. As the colourful sprinkles gathered like a tiny moustache on her upper lip, she licked them off, straightened up, and adopted a serious, almost adult tone. She was about to become the kind of young lady who thinks about looking after the man in her lifeeven if that man is rather seasoned. After all, James had just celebrated his birthday the week before. Emily had drawn him a card at nursery, painstakingly colouring a huge 55 in bright crayon.
She squinted, pushed her eyebrows together, and announced, I think you should get married.
She added, with the generosity of a child who believes in unicorns, Youre not that old yet, are you?
James chuckled, a low, amused rumble.
Youll say Im not that old, wont you? he replied.
Emily beamed. Not at all! Look, Uncle George, whos been popping over to Mums twice alreadyhes nearly bald, you know. He
She tapped her forehead with a small hand, smoothing her soft curls, as if visualising a secret. James stared at her, his eyes narrowing, as if shed just let slip a family secret. Suddenly both of Emilys palms pressed to her lips, her eyes widened in faux horror and bewilderment.
Uncle George? Which George are you talking about? Mums boss? James shouted, halflaughing, halfserious, enough to draw a few amused glances from nearby diners.
Emily, suddenly unsure whether she should reveal the whole truth, mumbled, I dont know Maybe hes the boss. He brings us sweets, a cake, sometimes a bunch of flowers for Mum.
James interlaced his fingers on the table, staring at them as though deciding the fate of the universe. Emily realised that, at that very moment, he was about to make a very important decision. She, a budding strategist, knew that men often needed a gentle nudge toward the right choiceespecially when that nudge came from a little girl who considered herself the most valuable person in his life.
The silence stretched, then James finally exhaled dramatically, spread his fingers wide, lifted his head, and saidthough he didnt sound like Shakespeare, more like a dad whos read a bit of it.
Lets get you home, love. Its getting late, and Ill have a word with Mum.
Emily didnt ask what that word would be, but she sensed it was serious. She hurriedly finished her sundae, then, as if the icecream itself had given her a mission, slammed her spoon onto the table, slid off her chair, wiped her sticky lips with the back of her hand, and, looking straight at James, declared, Im ready. Lets go.
They didnt walk home; they practically sprinted. James, still holding Emilys small hand, resembled a general leading his banner through a battlefield, only the banner was a tiny, pinkcapped hairband and the battle was the stairwell of their flat block. When they burst into the lift, the doors creaked shut, taking a neighbor up to the seventh floor with a faint sigh.
James glanced at Emily from the bottom of the shaft, then she, eyes shining with determination, asked, So? Who are we waiting for? Its only the seventh floor, you know.
He scooped her up, took the stairs two at a time, and when they finally reached the landing, the door swung open to reveal Mum, still looking a bit snotty but smiling.
You cant just decide that on your own! she exclaimed, halfscolding, halfgasping. What about George? I love you, James. And we have Emily.
James, still cradling his daughter, pulled Mum into a warm, if slightly awkward, embrace. Emily, feeling the weight of the moment, wrapped both arms around their necks, squeezed, and closed her eyes. The whole scene felt like a tiny, domestic version of an overthetop romance film, complete with the inevitable kiss that left everyone slightly bewildered but undeniably proud of the little familys ability to keep going, one absurd conversation at a time.
