In fact, that has been another bone of contention between us lately：men. She just can’t pick them. Well, she can, but only the kind who break her heart. I’ve lost count of the boxes of tissues she’s gone through over some romance or the other gone wrong. The latest, Eddie, is no different, for all I know, but she won’t hear a word against him. Although I do have to admit, she smiles much more these days. She thinks I’m overly protective, but just six months ago she rarely left the house. I had to practically drag her around to the shops for new clothes. Now, she’s never in, day or night. I suppose I must take some responsibility for the change in her. I was the one who introduced her to the Friday night club at the localmunity center. Since then, she’s be a different person. And I’m finding it difficult to cope with the new her.
Now, I try, really try to be enthusiastic over her sudden interest in fashion. But my interest wanes somewhere between the frilly dresses, especially that awful fuchsia one, the chunky gold jewelry, and the spiky heels, Her friends are equally fluorescent, and to see them all together, sunshades are a must.
Sheplains that I don’t talk enough with her visitors. I would if I could, but I don’t understand a word they say. They converse in a language totally outside my realm of experience, using words and phrases that could be the vernacular of another pl, never mind another generation.
I know it isn’t easy when they’re at this stage in their lives, but I’ve done my best to bring some order, to give her new interests, and to add a little culture to her world, all to no avail. Dancing is now her number-one hobby. Forget paintings, sculptures, and literature：If it doesn’t have a beat, it’s not worth a thing.
Suddenly, I hear the sound my ears have been straining for all night. Her laughter floats up through the early morning air as she giggles at some whispered exchange—calls of “goodnight,” more laughter, and then the clickety-click of her heels as she totters up the path. Her key has barely turned in the lock before I’ve crossed the bedroom in two strides, switched on both the landing and hall lights, and am waiting at the entrance. Anger, frustration, love, and an overwhelming need to protect all merge into a kaleidoscope of emotion while I wait to play out what’s fast bing a regular Saturday scenario.
Like a rabbit caught in headlights, she stops inside the door, blinking in the harsh glare. She looks so small and vulnerable. Her tiny, slim fingers appear almost translucent as she raises her hand to shield her eyes