I chuckle. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” I say.
Ridley eyes our daughter, who is staring up at the tiara, and reminds me, “Remember when she was born and my father tried to put his own private security team on the maternity wing?”
I laugh and pet my daughter’s hair, which resembles that of my wife’s. “Mr. Rushmore met his match in the form of neo-natal RNs that day. I bet he wasn’t expecting that.”
“No, they were not having him. They almost didn’t let him in to see us,” she says, “and he ended up gifting every nurse on the wing a free week’s stay at a Rushmore resort of their choice.”
“And remember how your mother fought with the hospital photographer on just the right angle for the baby’s first photograph?”
Ridley shakes her head. “Oh yes, how could I forget? I was still stuck in bed after my C-section and powerless to stop her. At least your mom was the voice of reason and stepped in to calm her down.”
I give my wife a squeeze. “I’m glad our moms are friends.”
“I want to wear the crown. Mommy, please?”
Ridley shakes her head at our daughter and removes her hands from the glass, where they’ve now made fingerprints. “No, honey. It has to stay in the case so it doesn’t get dusty. And, it’s very old and fragile, not a toy.”
Antonia stomps her foot. “I know it’s not a toy. That’s my crown!”
I hold my breath, but my wife leans down and says to our daughter, “I said no. And if you stomp your foot again, you don’t get to play video games with Daddy later.”
Antonia pouts and stares daggers at my wife. But not even a five year old — spoiled rotten by her namesake grandfather — can stand up to my wife. The staring contest goes on for another thirty seconds before Antonia heaves a sigh. “OK.”
“Good girl. You can wear your toy tiara when we get home,” I say.
“And we can also talk about some pretty great women at th
is school who did more impressive things than wore a crown,” Ridley says.
But Antonia is already distracted by the plaque on the wall next to the oversized painting of her grandfather, the school’s largest donor. “I’m going to be like PaPa Anthony when I grow up.”
“Oh god,” I say, laughing and trying not to let my daughter see the mock horror on my face.
Ridley places a hand on her lower tummy.
“Well, we might get a second chance at another little gamer or a swimmer. Or, you know, another little individual who can do whatever the hell she wants.”
“What do you mean?” Crosby asks.
I lean in close and whisper in his ear while sliding a hand into the back pocket of his jeans. “You’re a smart fellow. I think you know exactly what it means. The force is strong with my big nerd.”
THE END