My daughter startled me today with the words: I know youre not Grandmas son. The shock ran through me at her statement, for a child of barely two couldnt have come up with such a notion on her ownshe must have overheard this somewhere.
It was an ordinary evening, long ago, one of those quiet family nights after a days work. I recall sitting on the old settee, the glow of the television filling the room. My little girl bustled about nearby as she always did, muttering softly to herself in that tender, jumbled language only very young children have. At her age, her sentences were simple, her words sometimes muddled, so I paid her only half a mind.
Suddenly, she drew close, standing directly in front of me, arms folded and brow furrowed just so, a picture of seriousness.
Daddy she declared with gravity.
Yes, love? I smiled, thinking she might mention her favourite rag doll or ask for one of the shortbread biscuits kept in the jar.
I know a secret, she told me.
I couldnt help but chuckle. Go on then, tell me.
Youre not Grandmas son.
I stared, convinced for a moment Id misheard her. What was that?
Youre not her son, she insisted, her tiny voice tinged with something like indignation.
At first, I laughed it offjust childish fancy, surely. Whatever makes you say such a thing?
Her little face scrunched up further. Dont laugh. Its true.
A shiver crept down my spine. There was no way a child of her age had dreamt this up. It must have come from somewhere elsesomeone else.
Did Grandma tell you that, sweetheart?
No.
Mummy?
No.
So I leaned in closer. Then who told you?
With the greatest sincerity, she fixed her gaze on me and, in her sweet, halting speech, said something that left me utterly speechless.
I did. I told myself.
How do you mean? I puzzled.
She began with her own logic, trying her best to explain: You dont look like her. Grandma is pretty. Her hair is pretty. Her lips are pretty. She wears dresses with little flowers.
She paused, looked me up and down, then added with innocent brutality:
And you yuck.
Yuck? I spluttered, unable to keep the indignation from my voice.
You have prickles. She pointed at my chest, where my shirt gaped a little. And hair here. Youre not pretty. That means shes not your mummy.
Then, she leaned in as though revealing a great family truth, whispering, Dont tell anyone, Daddy. Grandma will be sad.
For a while, I was at a loss, and then I laughed until tears sprang to my eyes. I promised her faithfully Id keep her secret safe.
Of course, by bedtime she regaled Grandma and Mummy with the exact same story, her face grave, her evidence just as persuasive. Even now, I chuckle fondly to remember it.
