You

                “There’s a lot of bad in the world, isn’t there, papa?” She asks, staring into your eyes with sadness someone her age should not know.

                “There is, honey. But you know what? There’s a whole lot of good too,” you say, looking down at those brown eyes. You remember the first time you saw those eyes, when she was just born and she saw the world for the first time. You remember the first time you saw those eyes cry, and you remember how you told yourself you would do everything to make things better. You smile at her, hoping that your half answer has satisfied her.

                It didn’t: “But everything looks so bad. All we see on tv is more and more bad. How can there be good too?” She has her eyebrows crinkled together as her mind works. A warm breeze rustles her hair, and you watch the strands dance before answering.

                “Well,” your mind races now, “there are good people out there. People trying to make positive changes in the world. People who help everybody. Plus, the Hawks are looking pretty good this year, that’s always a good thing for me!”

                She chews on the end of her hair, absently, as she thinks about your words. “Are you one of those people, papa?”

                Her question startles you. You’ve always thought yourself a good person, but are you? You remember the casual racism of your youth, and the not so casual racism of the not-so distant past. You remember all the times that you lied to and cheated others. You remember the oft-considered affairs, and that they didn’t happen only because you got cold feet. You remember leaving your friends behind. Your family that was torn apart because of your choices. Worst of all, you remember every fight with your wife. Sure, you always tip, and you sometimes hold the door open for people. And yet the question lingers, Are you a good person? You open your mouth to answer, planning on giving some mindless little lie, but the look on her face forces you to reconsider. “No, honey, I’m not.”

                The hair falls out of her mouth as she looks at you in surprise, “What do you mean, papa?”

                You take a breath. “I don’t help people. You’re the only person that I help out of the goodness of my heart. I don’t protest things; I don’t go out of my way to give a helping hand. I don’t even tell the people at work to not say racist things. I just let it all happen, and tell myself that it doesn’t matter because I’m not doing it. But I am. I’m letting it happen, and sometimes I even join in.”

                She reaches forward and puts her hand on top of yours. The warmth from her hand resonates through you, and begins to calm your heart that you never noticed was racing. “You’re good to me, papa. That’s all I see.”

                You smile at her, tears forming in the corners of your eyes. “I love you, honey. I’m going to be the person you see.”
                As her arms wrap around your neck in a hug, you promise to yourself that you’re going to be better.     

                For her.