Samantha's Focus

When she was able to focus, when she was finally able to push out all distraction, it was not uncommon for Samantha to get 'in the zone'. That's where she was when her dad got home that day. Fully immersed, absorbing information quickly, barely noticing the noise downstairs. She would stay that way for the evening, skipping supper unless her dad came and broke her out of her hyper-focussed state. It was one of the tools that made her successful as a student.

It was also one of the things that had helped her when her mother died. Yes, she grieved, but when Samantha needed to escape from the pain of the loss, she worked. She read. She studied. She focussed. Her focus allowed her to put her feelings, her hurt, her heartache into a box, put the box on a shelf, and deal with it later.

Downstairs her father was shuffling around in the kitchen, probably getting a beer. Her dad coped with the loss differently. He'd started drinking more, for one thing. Not that he was an alcoholic, but she could tell that he was self-medicating with the booze. Probably lonely. It was hard to see him diminished like that, but at that moment she didn't care. Her focus only allowed her to care about her school work.

But then something happened.

Her brain sort of... glitched. Like a tic, or an itch, or a flash. Her focus shattered. What had she been thinking about? What had she been working on? It didn't matter. Samantha, in that moment, knew one thing perfectly clearly. Her father needed cheering up more than anything. Samantha could tell, even from her bedroom, even without seeing him that his day had gone terribly, and it was her job to drop everything to pull him out of his funk.

She stood up, scraping her chair on the hardwood floor, her book thumping to the floor, losing her spot. She let it lay. Who cared about her schoolwork? Her dad needed her!

"Daddy?" she called from the top of the stairs, making sure he was actually there, "Daddy, are you home?"

"Just in the kitchen," he called back. Samantha's heart ached at the sadness in his voice.

"Welcome home!" her feet pounded down the stairs and into the kitchen, "You should have come to say hi!"

"You were probably studying," he said, pausing to take a drink from the cold bottle, "I didn't want to disturb you."

"You're never a disturbance," she said with a grin, then she stared at his face and her grin vanished, "What happened? Did you have a bad day?"

"I guess," he said with a sigh, leaning back against the kitchen countertop, "Got rear ended on the way home."

"Oh daddy!" she exclaimed, rushing toward him and embracing him tightly, "Are you okay? Did you get hurt?"

"I'm fine, but the bumper wasn't so lucky."

"It's just a bumper," she said, resting her head against his chest, "that can be fixed. You're much more important. I don't know what I'd do if something ever happened to you."

Samantha loved being so close to her dad. She'd never been very demonstrative with him, but she knew that in that moment, physical contact would make him feel better. She let her hug linger longer than she'd done since she was a small child, feeling the rising and falling of his chest as he breathed, enjoying the warmth of his body.

"Tell you what," Samantha said, pulling herself away finally, "You go sit down on the couch and I'll make dinner tonight."

"But don't you have school work to do?"

"I'll do it later," she dismissed, "If my daddy's had a hard day, it's my job to make it a little better. Now you go relax while I cook."

"Well, if you're sure..." he said, walking out of the room, feeling uncertain.

"Of course I'm sure," she said, shooing him away with her hand gestures, "And let me know if you need another beer!"

Her dad left her in the kitchen with a sense of rightness in her belly. She was being useful to him, helping him with what he needed. She would make her dad's world a bit better. It was something she could work on, something she could focus on. And that was something Samantha was good at: focus.