In My Father's Eyes
Deborah K. Anderson
I looked under the tree—still nothing.
How dare he?
I waved my hand. “You mean your gifts?”
I walked over, retrieved his presents, and dropped them on the coffee table in front of him. He patted the sofa. “Aren’t you going to sit by me?”
Did he want to survive to see Christmas next year?
I sat down.
He opened his first two gifts, ever so happy, while I sat there and pouted.
Hello? What was wrong with this picture? (No pun intended.)
He paused. “I have to go to the bathroom.”
I cradled my head in my hands, secretly hoping he’d fall in. The next thing I knew, a large package came sliding across the floor in front of my feet. I raised my head, and my eyes widened.
He smiled and pointed. “Open it.”
I ripped the paper off, gasped, and then bawled.
Right in front of me sat a large framed picture of Dad—the one with the antlers, only the antlers were gone. It looked like Dad had posed in a professional studio—a heavenly one at that.
“How did you do this?” I croaked.
“Thought I didn’t get you anything, didn’t you?”
His chest swelled, bless his heart.
“Oh, and I had it digitally re-mastered for you,” he added.
I stared at the picture. Memories of Christmases past, even those I thought I had forgotten, flooded my heart as I looked in my father’s eyes.
“Thank you,” I said, suddenly noticing the same love in my husband’s eyes as he looked at me.
I hung the picture, knowing everything was going to be all right.