I watch her while we wait for the bus to arrive. She is all sunshine and rainbows on a typically gloomy winter’s day. Even her gumboots, bright yellow and covered in unicorns, scream joy and innocence.
“My daddy is coming home today,” she tells me, goofy grin missing a tooth.
She hums a tune I do not recognise as she thumps her gumboots into tiny puddles, creating a playground out of asphalt and concrete.
The old lady that sits on the bench beside me knits what looks like it could be a scarf. The pair arrived together, and every now and then, the eyes, beady and shrewd, check on the wellbeing of the little person in her care.
“She has never met him,” the old woman mutters. “I don’t know why she is so excited to meet a stranger.”
I try to ignore her, try instead to just admire the child and wait for my bus.
“He went in for fraud, and they made him live with monsters,” she laments.
“How long was he away?” I ask, I feel it is my duty to enquire about this at least.
“Six and a half years, the case was tried while my daughter was carrying her.”
“That’s tough,” I mutter, hoping I sound sympathetic enough.
“I was there for the labour…” the old woman tells me. “He couldn’t be, so it had to be me.”
“And where is your daughter now?” I ask, remembering the gory details and complications that occurred when my wife had our son.
“Home with a fever, otherwise I’d be knitting by my fireplace and not here shivering next to you,” she replies.
“Granny, do you know if daddy will be here soon?” the little girl asks.
“I hope so, darling, granny’s getting cold.”
I watch as the little girl climbs up onto her granny’s lap.
“You can cuddle me, until daddy gets here,” the little girl suggests. “I’m warm so I can make you warm too.”
“Yes, you are quite warm, aren’t you,” granny agrees. “My own little hot water bottle.”
The little girl giggles at such a suggestion, but then she turns serious.
Her blue eyes narrow and her nose wrinkles as she frowns.
“You don’t think I’m sick, like mommy, do you?” she asks, innocent, but concerned.
“Oh no dear, I think you have just been very active,” granny replies.
“You have been jumping in puddles quite a lot,” I say.
The little girl nods.
“Here comes daddy now,” granny says as a bus appears over the rise.
The little girl hops off the old woman and begins again jumping in the puddles. I’m surprised that there are any puddles left.
“Daddy’s coming home today! Daddy’s coming home!” she sings as she splashes.
When the bus pulls up, only one figure clambers down the steps, Cheap suit, defeated look. This must be the little girl’s father. We pass as I climb aboard, and I see his demeanour transform as the tiny thing in gumboots sees him for the first time.
“Daddy!” she screams and a little bit of that pure joy punctures my heart and makes me feel like life is good.
I make my way to the back of the bus so I can watch as we pull away from the shelter. The little girl is in her daddy’s arms, hugging him, while madly waving at me. I imagine things will be okay for them. The mother will recover. The sweater will be knit. And they will all live happily ever after. That little girl deserves a life like that. Yeah, hope is a six-year-old child in bright yellow gumboots, waiting for her dad.