proverbial first steps

She used to crawl on my lap and say in that singsong voice, “baba, can you tell me a story?” Those big brown eyes looking up at me. Like I was her whole world. She’d hold my hand as I told her those stories. She would tell me everything, boys she thought were cute, teachers she didn’t like. And she held my hand. She has held my hand, since her hand could only hold one of my fingers. Look at her now. She looks resplendent. Red kameez. Shalwaar white. Decorated with jewelry. She is looking down shyly, eyes demure. She looks up and sees me looking at her, and smiles. My heart almost shatters. She won’t be living with us any longer. She’ll move to his house. God, I hope I chose the right boy. I think I did. I mean I know his father. They are a good family. At least from the outside. I hope they treat my daughter well. I hope she knows she can come to me anytime. My wife is stressed. She’s looking at me. Probably wondering why I give more attention to my daughter than her. She’s always had a problem with it. I mean I can’t help it. It’s natural for me. I always wanted a daughter. Not a son. Not even in this culture. I used to joke around with my friends and girlfriends about it. I never had a sister. I wanted a daughter so I could love and cherish and protect someone. So I could raise her up with everything she ever wanted. So I could give her whatever her heart desired. And then we had a daughter. My eyes well up with tears. Of joy. Mixed with a little bit of sadness. Having a daughter was everything I could have ever imagined. And so, so very much more. And now, now she’s all grown up. And she’s leaving. Wish I had a little bit more time. I wonder if I can call this wedding off. I know I can’t. But it is fun to entertain the thought. God, she looks regal. Tall, poised. I wonder how we raised such a fantastic girl. I squeeze my wife’s hand, as she comes and stands next to him. She squeezes back. The music plays softly all around us. I look at her, she has that look right before she is about to cry. “Realized she’s going away?” I ask with a smile and a laugh. I have this tendency to laugh, especially when I am most hurt. She sniffled back a tear. I squeezed tighter. I could feel the corners of my eyes getting wet. With my other hand, I wiped them dry. The fabric on my sleeves scratched my face. Rough, starchy. I look back at my daughter. She is looking at both of us, her eyes sparkling. I mouth silent words of love to her. She smiles wide. My heart jumps. I think that’s it. You see them grow up, live their entire lives, and then one day, they’re gone. It’s not that you can’t see them anymore. But you can’t see them grow in this new phase of their lives, can’t see their proverbial first steps, and words, and stuff. I think that’s it.