It was autumn when my daughter turned four. She suddenly decided to make breakfast for me. I lay on the sofa, pretending to be asleep. I heard a chair scrape across the floor in the kitchen, followed by the fridge opening and closing.
When I walked in, she stood on the chair, holding a gallon jug of milk and pouring it into a bowl. The bowl was far too small. Milk spilled over the rim, streamed across the counter and down the cabinet door. A puddle had already formed on the floor, and her bare feet stood right in it.
She turned around and saw me. Her hand jolted, tilting the jug, and more milk spilled out.
“I’m making breakfast for you, Mom,” she said. “I wanted to pour you some milk.”
I stood there, watching milk drip steadily onto the floor. She held up the half-full bowl and looked at me earnestly, waiting for my reaction. For a split second, all I could see was the mess.
I did not scold her for grabbing such a big jug or point out the mess. Instead, I fetched a towel and mopped up the floor. I wiped the milk off her toes too. Then I took a mug from the cabinet, poured the milk into it, and handed it to her.
She held the mug with both hands, walked carefully to the living room and set it on the coffee table. Next she grabbed a box of Cheerios and dropped a few flakes into the milk. They floated on top like tiny life rings. She stared at her creation, looking proud. “All done. Drink up, Mom.”
I sat down and picked up the mug. The cereal had turned soft and stuck to the sides. I took a sip. It tasted sweet.
That night, after she fell asleep, I went to the kitchen for water. I spotted a faint white milk stain on the stovetop, shaped like a little island. I touched it, but left it there.
It was still there the next morning. I glanced at it and carried on.
The mark faded away eventually. But I still remember those days when it stayed right there.
