It happens on the subway train again. My eyes suddenly fill with tears.
She’s sitting across from me, smiling to herself, earbuds bobbing. It’s my daughter.
This one’s about fifteen, chubby-cheeked, with short bleached hair. Denim jacket and rolled up jeans, Doc Martens. But everything is clean and untorn.
We’re at home, having a good natured argument over who had the better singles, The Shop Assistants or The Razorcuts.
Now I’m telling her it’s a cliche for her to learn the bass, that she should be playing guitar or drums instead. She’s unmoved.
We’re discussing which is the best Wes Anderson film. We don’t agree. We never agree.
I’m telling her to go easy on her mum, that she only wants the best for her. And she can always change her major later on.
Now she’s telling me about a girl she has a crush on at school. Or maybe it’s a boy. Inside I’m hugging myself that she’s telling me any of it.
It’s only been two subway stops. She gets up to leave. I send her a silent blessing. My daughter.