It wasn't by accident that we bought an unnaturally orange house. That day, unsuspectingly, I lugged my daughter out of the car and onto my back. Whirling around, I nearly fell flat on top of her! The picture in the ad never conceded it to be a painfully garish color. It merely said 'inspirational orange.'

Being of an odd frame of mind, I found it interesting that they chose to put 'inspirational'. It wasn't 'just orange.' It was a thirteen-letter word for intriguing in a 30-word description limit. Think of the sacrifice!

Well, I--Amelia Innya--went running to the phone when I saw it also had an indigo door. Indigo is my daughter's favorite color. Thouh, she, at two, is not quite aware of it yet. She simply knows that blue is not pretty enough and purple is not natural enough. So, now, I'm working on her first word to be 'indigo.

Perfect, no?

I looked behind me to my daughter. Her eyes flashed from groggy to a brilliant energy. Her lovely, brown hand slid down my head and I reached up to pat it. I watched our hands and something about my pale on her dark looked better than much of anything else in my life.

As a habit, I stroked my thumb over her tiny finger, admiring the stark appearance of the mild, loving gesture. Something about the contrast glorified the opposites, muted the flaws, and it became a lacing of perfection. Of balance.

Anyway, I ambled on up to the house and leaned my head back to find it tapered off to a decrepit-looking attic. How odd. The first floor was perfectly kept and the windows seemed to have been replaced with shiny, new replicas. The lone attic window was circular and looked to be tipping over, peering at us from high up. Oddly enough, everything seemed to harmonize-it evoked a tranquil mood, like a lighthouse.

Well, my mind had a difficult time fitting comfortably in the idea that this house was great. I was attacked with impulses to run away from the glaring orange, head for the car, and cancel the meeting with the owner.

Addi, behind me, put in her say with an eager gurgle. Well, that settles it. I couldn't. If I did, in fact, head home, little Addi would scream, "Blurple!" at the disappearing door and never learn the word 'indigo.'

Why, what kind of Mother would I be to let the darling grow up not knowing the beauty of blending?

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A/N: This odd 'drabble' was prompted by Toasted (). It's also my first story about an adult woman--and with a daughter, I might add. So, I hope you enjoyed.