“What are you looking at? What are you thinking about?” That’s my daughter. My mind-reading daughter. The one who thinks (quite often correctly) she can read even the most fleeting of facial expressions.
“Nothing.” What else can I say?
“I can tell you were thinking about something,” she pushes. She always pushes. Always, always. She is the original dog with a bone.
I turned away from the window, turn away from the smooth stone that I took five seconds from my busy morning to cling on to.
“I was just trying to decide where to plant the flowers you got me for Mother’s Day,” I say, finally seeing the flowers in front of me.
“Really?” she prods. Prod, prod. “You looked like you were thinking about something else.”
At this point I flee into the safety of the bathroom, the only room a mom can lock the door behind her without question. I give in momentarily the lure of the window, taking a few seconds to look without seeing anything before turning away once and for all and start the day.