Darren walked toward the stage, stunned that they had read his name in the envelope. His name! He felt like the lights were too bright, he couldn't see-what would happen if he tripped up the stairs on his staggering march toward the microphone? This was the Golden Globes for God's sake, he better get his shit together. His heart was racing and he knew he was sweating and he was completely blanking on everything he had planned on mentioning when he had thought about his speech. Though, even that original plan had been a little sketchy, seeing as he had assumed with about 99% confidence that the award would go to someone else.
And then he was there, standing at the podium. The presenter had handed him his award, and he was left staring out at what seemed like an endless sea of beautiful, sparkling people. His mind was panicking, running circles around itself. Instantly, as if knowing it was going into circuit failure, his brain provided him with an image of Sylvie: she's standing in the kitchen with that huge mass of dark curly hair, her mother's gray eyes, and ice cream all over her face. And also on her shirt. Darren thinks about how he could get lost in those eyes (and did, actually, on a daily basis). He had written songs about those eyes. And now they were looking back at him from that perfect little face, calming him down faster than you could say "Darren…breathe".
Thinking about those eyes he remembers everything. The day he became a dad, overwhelmed with ecstasy and joy and all those other happy words. There was a little bit of fear present on that day as well. No—not fear, that wasn't the right word for it. A feeling so huge that there was no word for it, so overwhelming he felt like it would swallow him whole. A word that meant that he would be there for her forever, that nothing could come between him and that tiny thing he held in his arms. He thinks the closest word they have for it in the dictionary is devotion.
He remembers her first word ('beautiful', only pronounced more like 'booteeful'), her first steps, her first Christmas. Most recently he remembers a day not too far back, maybe a week or so. She was on her new bicycle and he was out in front of the house, making sure everything was okay, that she didn't go too far. She was rolling a little too fast down the hill back toward the driveway and lost control of the little pink bike, falling hard to the ground. The small girl cried out, more in shock than pain, and Darren had sprinted toward her, crouching next to her on the ground. He put his arms around her, examining her for damage while murmuring softly,
"It's okay, Daddy's here, Daddy's always here".
Unphased by the skinned knee, she had just looked up at him with those calm gray eyes and said,
"I know, Daddy".
This all flashes through Darren's mind's eye in a matter of a few seconds. He looks out into the audience and finds that pair of singular gray eyes: Sylvia's mother, looking at him with tears and an unfathomable amount of love in those pools of soft color she had given to their daughter. He thought of her, and Sylvia, and stepped up to the microphone. He let the world see that smile, that trademark smile that looked like it was powered by about ten thousand mega watts of pure sunlight. He thought of his little girl, took a deep breath and said,
"Sylvie, honey, this is for you".