Near the edge of the city, in one of the suburbs, stood a little house. It didn't stand out any more than any other. It was coloured white with a grey tiled roof. The front garden was well groomed and blossoming with spring flowers around the edges. There were some wooden steps leading up to a patio and the front door of the house. And on the wooden decking of the patio was sprawled a little girl, no more than seven years old.
She was lying on her stomach, legs kicking up in the air, tongue sticking out and an almost comical frown of concentration on her face. Her blue eyes were fixed intently on the paper before her on which she was drawing. Her long blonde hair – specifically the fringe – kept falling in front of her eyes as she looked down, but, undeterred, she kept blowing it away or tucking it behind her ears before continuing to draw.
The sound of the wind rustling through the trees gently and the birds chirping their merry compositions all blended together to make relaxing music which the little girl only semi-registered, too focused on her drawing to pay full attention. Her mini trance was interrupted by the sound of heavy footfalls coming down the garden path. She looked up to see who it was, and as soon as she saw, her face split into a huge grin (which was missing a few teeth). "Daddy!"
The little girl's father was a slightly tired but kindly looking man in his mid-thirties. He wore a pair of black, rectangular spectacles on the bridge of his nose, a simple uniform of white shirt, black suit trousers, and smart black shoes. From the breast pocket of his shirt hung an ID badge from his workplace – the robotics experimentation laboratory – which displayed his details and a photograph of him. His scruffy but short cut blonde hair was thinning slightly at the back, but he paid this no mind.
"Tammy-bear!" he called in return, his voice enthusiastic and happy despite his weariness. His daughter scrambled to her feet, dropping the red crayon she had been holding, and ran towards her father, arms open joyfully. Her father bent his knees and held his arms out to her as she ran into them. He picked her up under the armpits and swung her round in the air once before pulling her close and planting a kiss on her forehead. The action caused a squeal of delight and raucous giggling from the little girl. She wrapped her arms around his neck in a tight hug before pulling away and pointing at the discarded crayons and paper on the patio.
"I drew a picture!" she announced proudly. "I drew us! Mummy, and Daddy, and me!" Her father smiled. "Is that right?" he asked. "Well, we'd better go and see this masterpiece of yours, then!" The little girl wriggled in her father's arms, wanting to be set down, and her father did so, leaving her free to run over, snatch her picture up from the ground, and bound back to show him. A childish drawing of people with off-round heads and bodies with wonky lines for arms, legs, hair and smiles met his eyes. It may not have looked like much to someone else, but to him, it could have been the most wonderful art in the world, because it was by his little girl. His little Tamora.