Going back through old prompts. This one was “Cat“.
He hadn’t seen his daughter in months.
The war had sent his career in the most skyward direction, and he was never home. A legitimate arms dealer, he had governments to seduce and deals to be made. Whenever he was home, it was after his princess was already asleep and he was gone before she rose, sleepily, to eat breakfast.
But he was home now. Or almost. The little cries from the box on the passenger seat sounded as eager to be there as he was.
At 5pm, he opened the door. At 5:03, the three-year-old opened her box.
© 2016 Heather Stephens