You Never Asked
I saw my little girl. Sitting in the corner, on her own. I saw the loneliness she was feeling. I wanted to go to her, talk to her. but she didn't speak to me. My little girl was hungry. She watched her family sitting around a table, laughing and sharing a meal. She wouldn't eat. She wouldn't join them. I wanted so badly for her to join me, to eat of my bread, drink of my wine. But she didn't ask. My little girl was hurting, and I saw and felt every moment of it. I watched as that man touched her, took advantage. I felt all of her shame and fear. If she had asked for me, I could have stopped it. But she didn't. And all I could do, was watch her pain. My little girl had so many emotions trapped inside he, nobody left to talk to. Except for me. But instead, she picked up the knife. I saw it all. Watched her bleed. Watched her, as she sobbed into her hands. I waited patiently for her to talk to me, ask for me. But still, she wouldn't even utter my name. My little girl climbed into bed. And silently, she cried. Then it happened. "Daddy," my little girl softly whispered. "I need you daddy." And there I was. I stayed all night with my little girl, holding and comforting her, talking and listening to her. "Why weren't you there from the beginning?" she asked me. I looked at my little girl, saw all the confusion in her eyes, and replied, "You never asked."