Daddy's girlI am no longer merely mildly annoyed by her obvious preference. I find it downright disturbing. So does my husband, enough so that when he and I return from a romantic weekend and pick up our daughter at my parents' place, Gary insists I walk into the house before him so I'm the one Rose sees first. I open the front door. Call her name. Brace myself.
She hears my voice and comes running from the living room. Then my daughter — for whom I gave up margaritas and caffeine and even pain relievers for nine months, the child I labored 13 hours to bring into the world, the daughter I sang to and continued to nurse even after her first teeth came in — runs right past me and straight into the arms of her daddy.
"Well," my mother, who has been observing the scene, pipes up. "She certainly is a daddy's girl!"
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