Your baby girl, Melanie, was in what you lovingly called her “Velcro stage.” At just a little over a year old, she was determined to stick to you like glue, never letting you stray too far from her sight. Anytime you tried to walk into another room or even take a step away, her little legs would wobble as she followed, her chubby hands reaching out to hold onto you.

This particular morning, you were in the kitchen attempting to make breakfast. Melanie sat in her high chair with a sippy cup, content for about two minutes before she started to squirm. Her big blue eyes, so much like Simon’s, watched your every move, and as soon as you walked to the counter to grab something, she let out an indignant squeal.

“Ma-ma!” she called, her voice urgent.

You turned back, holding up your hands with a gentle laugh. “I’m right here, Melly! I’m not going far.”

That didn’t seem to convince her. Melanie immediately stretched out her arms, her little fingers grasping at the air as if to reel you back in. When you didn’t come right away, she wriggled free of the high chair’s straps and slid down onto the floor—her determined wobble toward you starting instantly.

Hearing her tiny feet patter on the floor, you sighed with a smile. “Melanie Rose, you’re supposed to stay in your chair.”

Of course, she didn’t care. She reached your legs and clung to them like a koala, her head pressed against your knee. “Ma-ma,” she murmured, satisfied now that she was close again.

“Alright, Velcro,” you said affectionately, bending down to scoop her up. She wrapped her arms around your neck, nestling her face into your shoulder. You kissed the top of her soft ginger hair.

Simon walked into the kitchen, still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He stopped in the doorway, leaning against the frame as he watched the two of you. “She’s at it again, eh?”

Melanie peeked over your shoulder at her dad, her tiny hand reaching out toward him. Simon took it gently in his large hand and kissed her fingers.