repetitive

eight

When I finish my work, I like to watch Lily draw. I don't think she's aware of it, but she has her own quirks and techniques when she makes these patterns on my white board. Hell, I've been using them occasionally in my own artwork.

When she's about half done I speak up and ask her, "Why don't you play with the other kids at recess?"

She makes another circle on the board. "I 'unno."

"Don't you want to play tetherball? Or go down the slides, or whatever it is little kids do in elementary school recess?"

She shrugs. "No."

"You just want to draw?"

"I just want to draw."

"You're going to dry my markers out eventually."

"I'll buy you new ones."

"Do you have money?"

She pauses. Then: "Daddy will buy you new ones."

I laugh, setting my feet up on top of my desk. "Be nice with your dad's money."

"I know," she says more sadly.

"What's wrong?"

"I don't mind. But it makes him sad."

"What makes him sad?"

"He can't give me a birthday party. We don't have money. I don't mind! I just want cake and presents. Not a lot of presents! Just one or too. Like a big bucket of crayons. Or markers. And big paper. The really big kind that unrolls across the floor."

"I have a feeling you'll get some good stuff. Lily, you know your dad loves you very much, right?"

"Right!" She turns, almost offended that I would ask such a thing. "I know he does. It's not his fault! It's hard without Mommy."

"I know."

This seems enough, and she turns back to the board to keep drawing. I watch her for a while longer, smiling though. She's not like other kids, and it's probably because of the fact that her parents are some of the most amazing people I've ever known.

"Wills?" she asks more quietly.

"Yes, Lily?"

"Sometimes..."

"Sometimes what? It can be our secret."

"Sometimes I think I killed my mommy."

I sigh slowly at that, shaking my head. "No, dear. Don't ever think that."

"Last night, Daddy told me all about her. He said she was bleeding too much. So she died."

"Yeah. That wasn't your fault, though. It wasn't anyone's fault. It was just bad luck."

"Daddy loves me a lot. But do you think he was mad at me when I was born?"

"Lily, stop that. You should be happy you have him."

"I am. He's happier, too. He doesn't cry anymore."

I'm a bit more interested in that. "Did he used to cry?"

"Sometimes. At night in his room. I would hear him. But he doesn't do that anymore."

"When did he stop?"

"I 'unno. Weeks ago."

When I started dating him. I smile a little, even though the news of hearing about him having to always carry this heavy burden hurts, because I did something. I helped him without knowing it.