Another essay for my creative Non-fiction class

Daddy-Daughter Day

Daddy-Daughter Day was Mariam’s idea. That was before we called her Mariam, before she went to high school and insisted we call her Mariam. Back then she was Najwa, named after our grandma. Najwa was her middle name.

Naj was the oldest, followed by Ruth, then me. This was after the divorce. After Dad gained full custody. Dad went to work. The three of us went to school.

Najwa came up with her new idea during our walk from the bus stop to our front door. It was just something to make Dad happy. Something to soothe the deep circles beneath his dark brown eyes. Something to make him notice her.

“Let’s make Dad dinner,” Najwa looked at Ruth for a response, knowing I’d go along with whatever Ruth decided.

“We dunno how to cook, Naj.”

“I do. All you guys have to do is decorate.”

I looked at the two of them and adjusted my bright yellow Lisa Frank book bag with purple and pink kittens printed on the front.

Najwa’s version of cooking dinner was unwrapping some pop-tarts or microwaving a TV dinner. She instructed Ruth to make a card that read “Happy Daddy-Daughter Day!” Ruth was in fourth grade and already a talented artist. She folded white computer paper down the center and wrote smooth letters with curls at the end of the Y’s in “Happy,” “Daddy,” and “Day.” She designed elaborate borders with stars and hearts then passed the paper to me.

“Write your name right here,” she pointed to an empty space on the card. I fumbled with the red crayon and scratched SARAH in all capital letters. She grabbed the card and spelled Ruth below my name. She drew a heart next to the R and I felt a pang of envy that I didn’t think of that first. Naj leaned over Ruth to sign her name in elegant letters. She handed Ruth and me a foil bag of pop tarts for dinner and shoed us away from the kitchen table. She put the TV dinner at Dad’s place at the table, the card next to the plastic plate.

We heard the garage door creak before we heard thick weary steps up to the door. Naj flung the door open and exclaimed, “Happy Daddy-Daughter Day!”

“What’s going on?”

“It’s Daddy-Daughter Day! Come see.”

She led him to the table where he sat in front of the meal and eyed the card.

“Did you make this?” He looked right into Ruth’s blue eyes.

“Yeah.” She chewed the inside of her cheek and looked down.

“It’s beautiful Ruthie.” He pulled her to his side and squeezed. Ruth wrapped her arms around his thin waist. I jumped in his lap yelling over and over, “I signed my own name!”

Naj sat in the chair next to him and waited. She flicked the edges of the card and watched Dad kiss my freckled cheeks and compliment Ruth’s artistry.

“It was all my idea. Look. I made you dinner and fed the girls so you wouldn’t have to.”

“Oh thank you, Najwa. That was very thoughtful.”

I slid off his lap and moved to the chair across the table. I watched him drive the fork through the chicken patty, and dump salt on the mashed potatoes. His glasses slid down his nose when he looked down. Shoulders slouched and back curved, he always seemed tired and small.

Najwa must’ve thought Daddy-Daughter Day was a success. The next week she decided that Daddy-Daughter Day should happen at least once a week. She became more confident with the dinners, Ruth more elaborate with the cards. I thought it was a way to make Dad smile.

The last Daddy-Daughter Day Najwa made a baked potato to go with the chicken noodle soup she found in the cabinet. She stabbed holes in the potato and put it in the microwave like she’d seen Dad do many times. She set his spot at the table, signed her name next to mine and Ruth’s and put the card next to his plate. We heard the garage close and the car door slam. His steps were heavy. Najwa swung the door open, her arms outstretched, “Happy Daddy-Daughter Day!”

“Oh thank you.” He said passively and bent down to squeeze Ruth to his chest with me close behind, eager to shove Ruth out of the way and claim Dad as my own.

“I thought I’d try something new today…” Naj was saying when Dad sat at the table. She flicked at the corners of the card, sitting in the chair next to his. Ruth and I sat across the table and watched his glasses slide down his nose, his shoulder slouch. He drove the fork into the potato.

“This isn’t cooked.”

“I poked the holes in it and put it in the micro-“

“Oh well, it still isn’t cooked, now is it?”

Najwa stared at the potato, then at Dad’s hand nudging it on the plate with his fork. I watched his face twist in Najwa’s direction as if he caught her attempting to poison him.

“I’m not a horse! I can’t eat raw potatoes.”

“I just thought…” Naj choked on her words.

“This is disgusting.” He pushed his plate away. I kicked my legs beneath the table and watched her bottom lip shake. She stood up fast, but the tears streaming out of her brown eyes were faster. I looked to Ruth for some answer as to why Dad wasn’t pleased this time, why Najwa was so sad. Ruth chewed the inside of her cheek before looking up.

“Daddy?”

“You card is beautiful honey.”

Ruth grabbed my wrist and pulled me from the table.

The next week Najwa said we were done with Daddy-Daughter Day and stayed in her room when we heard the garage door open, the car door slam.