Daisy pulled the box out from under her father’s bed. She lifted it gently, then placed it on her lap, examining the hand-carved patterns her father had put so much work into, so many years ago.
She brushed a thick layer of dust from the top of the box. It reminded her of when he would shovel the deep white snow from their driveway. A task that she had watched her father do each winter.
As she stroked the box’s lid, Daisy thought back to when she would pretend to be asleep so that her father would carry her to bed.
She had always felt so safe in his arms. When he had scooped her up, she had been unable to keep her joy hidden.
As a parent herself she realised now that her father must have always known the truth. He had carried her anyway. He had always carried her. Right up until he couldn’t.
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