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have written in this document you will see, won’t you, that I have obeyed her?

reunion
    I was in the public library café the other week. At a nearby table was a group of mothers and fathers with their babies and their toddlers. One of these toddlers— a girl of about two—was making it her habit to hop down from her chair and escape. She’d set off in the direction of the lift doors. The café is very open and leads across a mezzanine to lifts, which carry you down to the library or to the underground car park.
    The little girl, with a smile on her face, because she knew exactly what she was doing—she knew she was cute and young and blameless—she would run through the café towards the lifts. Her father, on whose love she could depend, would let her get a certain distance and then he’d put down his coffee and stand up and walk fairly quickly to retrieve his daughter. He’d scoop her up and she’d cry out in pleasure andthey’d return; the girl would be put on her chair again and the father would pick up his coffee again and try to have a life again. This happened a few times, and the pair had a good audience—mostly older couples having lunch. We were enjoying the spectacle. Each time, the father would let the girl run a little further. He’d ignore her for a little longer. He was trying to finish his coffee or the conversation he was having. He was with adults; it was a rare treat and he didn’t want to miss out. But eventually, of course he’d go and get her again. Short of tying her down in some way, what else could he do?
    It was all developmental.
    He put her in the playpen with the slide and she climbed the little wall and ran off. He gave her some of his cake, which she ate while leaving. He removed someone else’s child from the top of the slide and put her in his place. She slid down and escaped. He spoke with his nose pressed against hers, forehead to forehead almost, like soccer players sometimes do. She heard him out and hopped down when he wasn’t looking. He said, I will give you everything, a TV above the cot, everything. Please stay there. By this stage most of the audience were a little bored. When the girl ran past the tables now hardly anyone was looking and if they did it was with a bit of annoyance—won’t someone deal with that child?
    So this last time, the father really ignores her andthe girl get as far as the lifts—she’s made it—and she stands in front of them. She doesn’t know what to do now. The father gets up again and maybe he’s a little concerned, though he doesn’t want to frighten his daughter, so he sort of begins half-jogging towards the girl, and he may even be making a few noises of discouragement.
    The doors of the lift open and the girl steps inside and then the doors close and she’s gone.
    The father arrives at the lift and pushes the button but the lift has obviously started on its journey.
    Now the father doesn’t know what his next move is. He looks over the railing of the mezzanine wondering if his daughter will get out there. But what if she carries on down to the car park? What if she steps out there? That’s probably where they parked the car. Would she run to the car? She can recognise their car. She’s a very clever girl. Then he presses the lift button again. The other lift has arrived—but should he step in? Maybe he’ll miss her, if he’s in one lift and she’s in the other. He sort of hops around. He puts his arm inside the lift door to prevent it closing. I know what he’s thinking because I’ve been more or less in the same boat. He’s thinking, She’ll be fine. But he’s also thinking, I’ll never see her again. And it’s all my fault. He’s thinking because he wanted to finish his coffee, he loses his daughter. For one tiny moment of selfishness, this is my punishment? The hundreds ofhours, the two-plus years, all that care, the mornings, the early mornings, and the nights, you’ve got to be joking, the nights. So all