Personal Narrative: My Daughter
My daughter is one of the most stubborn people I’ve ever met.
“Mom, it’s really not that bad.” She sits across the island hunched over, her voice gruff with sickness. “Well we should get it checked out anyway, you could have strep.” I insist.
She tilts her head letting out a sigh. Looking off at an angle, avoiding my eyes she claims, “But it doesn’t feel like strep.”
“Doesn’t mean that it couldn’t be! I’m taking you.”
Fingers bending, rubbing, and pushing at each other beneath the table, Sam’s neck folds in half, creating a curtain of brown-blond stands, blocking the fleeting gaze that now studies the fidgeting digits. The twidling always seems to be more of a subconscious habit – probably doesn’t even realize she’s doing it half the time.
“Mom, it’s really not that bad.” She sits across the island hunched over, her voice gruff with sickness. “Well we should get it checked out anyway, you could have strep.” I insist.
She tilts her head letting out a sigh. Looking off at an angle, avoiding my eyes she claims, “But it doesn’t feel like strep.”
“Doesn’t mean that it couldn’t be! I’m taking you.”
Fingers bending, rubbing, and pushing at each other beneath the table, Sam’s neck folds in half, creating a curtain of brown-blond stands, blocking the fleeting gaze that now studies the fidgeting digits. The twidling always seems to be more of a subconscious habit – probably doesn’t even realize she’s doing it half the time.