A Wintry Chronicle of Emotional Subterfuge by Princess Charlotte (Age Six, Expert in Affection Tactics)
It was snowing the morning I went out to sneak a peek at the King's study.
A risky move, really.
Everyone tiptoed around my dad as if he were a time bomb dressed in velvet robes and disillusionment. He was "regal," "stoic," "commanding," and other boring adjectives for emotionally frozen. Honestly, he had the emotional depth of a toast rack.
But today, I had a plan.
Operation Meltdown
Step 1: Slip in
Step 2: Be cute
Step 3: Make him love me with the force of mad perseverance
I walked in wearing my fuzzy cape, dragging Whiskers behind me like an irritable emotional support beast.
The King looked up from beneath a pyramid of scrolls.
"Charlotte. Why are you here?"
I smiled with all six of my remaining baby teeth.
"I live here, Daddy Dearest."
He blinked.
I sat in the armchair across from him and pulled out my notebook.
"I've decided to observe you. For research."
"What research?"
"Father-Daughter Bonding: A Case Study in Emotionally Constipated Royalty."
He almost smiled. It came so fast I almost didn't see it.
Hour One: Silence and Staring
He returned to his work.
I glared.
He glared back.
"Can I help?"
"No."
"I could stamp something."
"You're six."
"Exactly. I can't be tried for treason."
That earned a snort.
Victory.
Hour Two: Emotional Sabotage
I started humming a blue tune about a sad penguin prince who just wanted a hug.
When that didn't work, I pitifully recounted my own tragic childhood.
"When I was three, you forgot my birthday—"
"You were in a coma from jumping off a dresser after declaring yourself a flying raccoon."
"Still counts."
Hour Three: Progress
He sighed, finally setting down his scroll.
"Would you like some tea?"
Victory.
He filled my cup with tea. I filled Whiskers' bowl.
Whiskers gave him a grudging nod of approval.
We sat. Quiet.
Not bad quiet. Warm quiet.
Then he asked,
"Do you enjoy living here?"
I blinked.
"No," I replied. "Too many rules. Too many expectations. But..." I glanced about the fire-lit room, at the plate of cinnamon biscuits he'd mysteriously had on hand, "It's more enjoyable when you're not acting like a cold sardine."
He exhaled.
Almost chuckled.
"I'll... try to be a warm sardine?"
"Progress!" I bellowed, raising my teacup.
"To unfreezing cold fathers and disobedient princesses!"
He clinked his cup against mine.
It was very dramatic. Very royal.
Very emotionally repressed in a "this-is-the-most-affection-I've-shown-in-years" kind of way.
Epilogue of the Afternoon
We didn't say much after that.
He returned to paperwork.
I sketched a comic strip of the two of us riding a tax-made dragon.
But when I entered the study that evening,
he tousled my hair with his hand and said,
"Return tomorrow."
And I did.
Because even sardines, given sufficient time
and a satisfactory degree of nonsensical affection,
can become warm.