佚名/Anonymous
I was nine when my father sent me flowers. I had been taking tap-dancing lessons for six months, and the school was giving its yearly recital. As an excited member of the beginners'chorus line, I was aware of my lovely status.
So it was a surprise to have my name called out at the end of the show along with the lead dances and to find my arms full of long stemmed red roses. I can still feel myself standing on that case stage, blushing furiously and gazing over the footlights to see my father's grin as he applauded loudly.
Those roses were the first in a series of large bouquets that accompanied all the milestones in my life. They brought a sense of ambivalence, of being caught between pleasure and embarrassment. I enjoyed them, but flustered by the extravagance.
Not my father. He did everything in a big way. If you sent him to the bakery for a cake, he came back with three. Once, when Mother told him needed a new party dress, he brought home a dozen.
His behavior often left us without funds for other more important things. After the dress incident, there was no money for the winter coat I really needed or the new ice skates I wanted.
Sometimes I would be angry with him, but not for long. Inevitably he would buy me something to make up with me. The gift was so apparently an offending of love he could not verbalize that I would throw my arms around him and kiss him-an act that undoubtedly perpetuated his behavior.
Then came my 16th birthday. It was not a happy occasion. I was fat and had no boyfriend. And my men meaning parents furthered my misery by giving me a party. As I entered the dining room, there on the table next to my cake was a huge bouquet of flowers, bigger than any before.
I wanted to hide. Now everyone would think my father sent flowers because I had no boyfriend to do it. Sweet 16，but I felt like crying. I probably would have, but my best friend, Phyllis, whispered,“Boy, you're lucky to have a father like that.”