Every night, once it was dark outside and the lights came on, she'd wait for her father to come home. Sometimes, she'd wait at the window, sometimes she'd try and distract herself by playing a game.The minute he rang the doorbell, she'd squeal, race across the house and open the door.
Her father had once admitted to himself that there was no feeling more precious that that of tiny arms around your neck to welcome you home.
She called him Bob. He used to be a Baba but one day when he got home from work, she announced that she had a new friend - Bob. He smiled, waiting to hear of her new friend. She then climbed into his lap and said - You're Bob! and giggled. He called her his Little Bug. When he kissed her forehead at night, he always said "Little Bug in a Rug" and that always made her laugh.
On rainy evenings, Bob and his Little Bug would go to have soup at the diner around the corner. The owner was a family friend and he let her have as many croutons in her tomato soup as she pleased. They spoke about their days and their friends. Her friends who wore sunshine-yellow socks and made Mother's Day cards, his friends who worked long hours and didn't have anyone at home waiting for them.
 Sometimes, she didn't tell him certain stories in her day because she knew he'd feel bad. She didn't tell him how all her friends made fun of her socks that didn't match. She never mentioned the time when her friends shut her inside a cupboard during a game of hide-and-seek. Nobody likes being the weird kid in the corner but she knew that she always had Bob. He would never think she was weird.
He told her she could become whatever she wanted. So she became a writer. Spiral notebooks filled with her writing. Confusing poetry. Dark tales of love lost. He worried for her.
On her 20th birthday, she announced she wanted to study writing further.  She sat on an airplane soon enough and took off to America. Before she left, she had thrown her arms around him. There was still no feeling more precious.
She wrote him long, winding letters and short stubby emails. She left him abrupt messages online that made his day. "Dear Bob. It's cold here." "Dear Bob. The teacher looks a lot like our old maid." " Dear Bob. I thought of you when it rained here this morning"
She told him she didn't want to get married, when he asked. He had nothing to say. All he said was "I will support whatever decision you take." They never spoke about it after that.
On his 60th birthday, he got a brown package. He knew she'd send something special. One year she had sent him a harmonica. One year, a vintage chess board. This time it was a book.
He held it close to his heart when he saw the cover. It had her name on it. The small girl who climbed into his lap wrote this book. He didn't worry for her anymore.
On the first page, in bold print it said " For my Bob who always listened to all my stories."
He shut his eyes and thought of her. He thought of her telling him the stories at the soup diner. Stories she had saved up all day to tell him. He opened his eyes and looked at the book in his hand
His Little Bug had made it.