"You never know your parents' love until you have children of your own." – Chinese proverb.
Can't I Come With You?
"Why are you going out again? Can't I come with you? I don't want you to go. I want you to stay here with me."
Words of love from an eight-year-old.
I remember how she used to say such things when I'd leave for a span; used to beg to tag along wherever I'd go.
"I'll be good. I won't get into trouble. I promise."
Sometimes her demands would annoy me. Why couldn't she stay with Jaken for a while? I wasn't going anywhere pleasant to do anything fun. Alone, I could finish my tasks more quickly and return sooner, and then see to her.
I tried reasoning, explaining. "But I want to be with you," she insisted.
So she came. Everywhere. To the mountains, through the forests, past the villages, to the capital. Anywhere I went, there she was, right by my side.
Most times I didn't mind, but there were days I ached for moments alone. Sitting quietly to catch a lark's tune, I would strain my ears and a little voice would interrupt.
"Why are you so quiet, m'lord? Why are your ears twitching? Did I tell you about what happened yesterday?"
It was my attention she wanted. My opinion and presence she craved. I was the audience she played to day after day. I became accustomed to her stories, her interruptions. Her fresh observations enriched me. "Since Tenseiga's a life sword, can I get a pet out of this rock? If rain makes things grow, why is Master Jaken so short?"
As she grew older, her questions became less entertaining, more irritating. The early teenage years were accompanied by a litany of demands and complaints. "Why do I have to be home so early? You get to go out late. Don't you trust me?"
Then, most of all, I wished she would be quiet, find something else to do, someone else to listen to her. Why did even the simplest matters have to turn into altercations? Couldn't she just ever leave me alone?
Now, too often, she does.
"How was your day?" I'll inquire of my seventeen-year-old when she returns. "Where did you go? What did you do?"
"I went to a village, met some people. It was no big deal, m'lord. Just hanging out."
Just hanging out. This isn't fair. I want detail. I want texture. I want to know what she does twelve hours a day. I want to hear about her friends, listen to her stories.
"How was your trip, my lord? What did you see? Did you have fun?" she used to ask only a few yeas ago. "What did you do at night? Did you go out? Did you miss me?" The endless questions always answered, always explained.
"Are you going out again tonight?" I find myself saying. Why didn't someone tell me this was going to happen? Everything is reversed. Now I'm the one tagging along, suppressing an "I'll miss you," and wondering, "When are you coming home?"
On some mornings I'll pass her and see she's listening to a lark's song. I know better than to talk. She doesn't want to hear what I have to say. And I understand.
Though underneath that understanding, there's this feeling, this growing awakening: This is how she felt nearly a decade ago. Afraid that something – some song, some activity, some person – would come and take me away from her. He shouldn't like that song more than he likes me, a child thinks. He shouldn't be able to have fun without me. So the child complains and the child imposes. Here I am. Look at me.
Here I am. Look at me, this adult wants to say; but of course I don't. I simply understand a little better why she used to sulk when I was someplace she couldn't be. Finally, after all this time, I am beginning to grasp why children cry when they are left behind.
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Author's Note: As much as I enjoy writing in first-person, I normally don't use it for fanfictions. However, it seemed to work out for this one. Maybe because I was listening to "Cat's in the Cradle" before hand (ha, ha). Thank you for reading. Reviews are appreciated as always.