They will grade every step I take. They will pull out
clipboards and check off boxes that I cannot see. All referendums on the dad I
will be.
Every move I make, it seems, is a test. Waiting for a
call, weak and dumb, means laying down when the need for action yanks me out of
bed at 3 a.m. A dozen escalating messages in a week shows I am too Faberge egg to
handle the gavel that will not bang. Any whisper of frustration in my voice, any
goofy joke missing the mark, shows them who I am and who I will be and they
will shift the search.
I am the only one grading me, I know. Most likely, they
barely notice.
But isn’t it all true? Doesn’t every ripple of who we are,
no matter how we might overanalyze, say a little about who we are and who we
would be?
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