I crouch down so I'm closer to Daisy's level. Even like this, I'm still bigger than her. She barely comes up to my shoulder, but it's better than looming over her like some kind of giant.
"This is Mr. Flopsy," she says again, holding the rabbit up higher. "He's my best friend. He goes everywhere with me."
"He looks like a very good friend," I say. My voice sounds too loud, even to my own ears. I try to soften it. "Does he have a favorite food?"
Daisy's eyes light up. "Carrots! Because he's a bunny."
"That makes sense. Bunnies love carrots."
"Do you like carrots?"
"I do. But I like cookies better."
She giggles again, and the sound does something to my chest. Makes it feel tight and warm at the same time.
"Me too," she whispers, like it's a secret. Then louder: "Mama makes the best cookies in the whole world. Chocolate chip and sugar cookies and sometimes oatmeal raisin but I don't like those as much."
"Oatmeal raisin are tricky," I agree. "Sometimes the raisins look like chocolate chips and then you bite into them and it's a surprise."
"A bad surprise," Daisy says solemnly.
"The worst kind of surprise."
She nods, satisfied that I understand this fundamental truth about cookies. Then she tilts her head, staring at me with those big blue eyes.
"You're Mama's boyfriend, right?"
The question catches me off guard. I glance up at Joanna, who's trying not to smile. She must have explained it to Daisy before I got here.
"Yeah," I say. "Is that okay with you?"
Daisy considers this very seriously. "Does that mean you're nice to Mama?"
"Very nice. I try to be as nice as I can."
"And you don't make her sad?"
This three-year-old is asking the questions that matter. Protecting her mother the only way she knows how.
"I never want to make her sad," I say honestly. "Your mama's very special to me. I want to make her happy."
"Good." Daisy nods decisively. Then: "Do you like playing?"
"Playing what?"
"Tea party! Or blocks! Or drawing!" She's getting excited now, bouncing slightly on her feet. "I have lots of crayons. Every color. Even the fancy ones with sparkles."
"I've never used sparkle crayons before."
Her eyes go wide. "Never?"
"Never."
"We have to fix that right now!" She grabs my hand. Her tiny fingers barely wrap around two of mine, and starts tugging. "Come on! I'll show you!"
I let her pull me toward a small table in the corner covered with coloring books and crayons scattered everywhere. She's surprisingly strong for such a little thing, determined to get me where she wants me.
"Sit here," she instructs, pointing at a tiny plastic chair that looks like it was made for someone a quarter of my size.
