"Where's dad? I need to ask him something." Sometimes it seemed that Abby looked at her like you would a butler. She herself had been a daddy's girl; that was true. Her mother had had her place, of course. When she was sick, when she'd gone through puberty - there were things for which she needed the woman's touch. But for almost everything else - bath times, bedtimes, being called in from play, being driven home from birthday parties and the like - for those things, only dad would do. Even now, as an adult, it showed. She still spent more time talking to her father than her mother when they called. In times of trouble it was her father's advice she naturally sought, and in times of triumph it was his approval she needed. It was not until she had a daughter of her own, however, that she began to think about her own nature.
She wasn't sure what age Abby was when she realised her daughter preferred her father. Tim used to work out of an office in the town, but being self-employed meant that he was sometimes able to come home in the middle of the day. On one of these days, when Abby was about five, Tim had been tasked with collecting her from school, as her mother had been pressed for time to do the shopping. When she had got home, she had found the two of them playing with Abby's toys on the carpet. They both looked so happy. After that, Abby was always asking if Tim would take her home, and if he was free, whether she herself was engaged or not, he would.
"Your father's out, dear," she said. "Anything I can help you with?" Her daughter looked her in the face, as if sizing her up.
"Never mind." Abby left the room.
She wondered why no one ever talked about this. She couldn't be the only one. And who could she blame? Not a 15-year-old girl, certainly. And not her husband, not for something that made him so happy.
She picked up the phone and dialed. "Hi Mum. No, I just phoned for a chat. No, no, I want to chat with you."
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