Her pudgy arm was raised and she was pointing at the high cupboard. In her fist, she held a red crayon. She let out an exclamation that could’ve been frustration or joy. At her feet was a piece of paper with a non-descript red scribble. He sighed and got up. He was hungry and grabbed the cookie jar from the cupboard. Eleanore let out a happy sound. “You want one?” he offered. Her face became red as she shook her head no. “Suit yourself,” he said, grabbing milk from the fridge. His little girl was a mystery to him. If only she could talk. The incoherent babble was a pain. She knew a handful of words and used “No” profusely. He was snacking standing up, a little irritated by her agitation. She was still gesturing with one fist, the other pounding the cabinets. He could tell a tantrum was close.
He downed the milk and swept the crumbs in his hand then into his mouth. Those were good crumbly cookies. The little blob was adamant that she wanted something. He crouched beside her, stared at the raised fist trying to see what she was pointing at. There was a box of crayons on the shelf by the cookie jar. What an idiot he’d been. “Crayon?” he asked hopefully. She rewarded him with a smile and an energetic nod. He took the red crayon from her tiny fist and put it back with the others before closing the cupboard door. He left the room, smugly satisfied with his fatherly powers of deduction.
Eleanore’s shoulders drooped as she slowly banged her head on the cabinets. Frustration oozed from her every pore. Her picture lay incomplete at her feet, missing a bright yellow sun.