The Doll

My Dad bought my sister a doll every year. It was one of those things that you don’t realize are important. It’s a lesson in that with our children it’s the little things they remember more than anything. Up till the day he died he would tell the story of the year he broke his daughters heart.

I don’t remember the exact year but Bobbi was young so I’m thinking she was six or seven years old. It was Christmas and we had opened the last of our presents and it was, as usual, a good Christmas. Lots of cool toys to play with. Everyone is happy, except for Bobbi. She’s looking around then gets up and goes digging through the tree.

Mom asks her what she’d doing. She says there has to be one more. No one knows what she’s talking about then she looks at Dad with tears in her eyes.

“Daddy didn’t get me my doll,” she says tears streaming.

My Dad was in shock. As a Dad now, I understand it as I never did then. He went out, right then, and got her a doll. but it wasn’t the same. He swore that year that he would never again disappoint her.

He never did until at last, just a few years ago, my sister finally asked him to not get her any more dolls as she had entirely too many to display or handle any longer. Thirty years and more he never again missed a Christmas until she finally forgave him.

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