harsh authoritarianism that was far too familiar to me. It surged in angrily like a tidal wave on the shore, and then flowed away with the ebbing of my daughter’s spent tears. I didn’t know it then, but it would be the last time. So, what could I do when I learned my daughter had sanitized the story about what happened to my favorite ring? Should I yell and scream? Apply a guilt trip? Make a big show of never trusting her again? Would that bring back my ring? No, but I might lose something more valuable, like my daughter’s confidence and trust, however belated it may have been. What I did instead was to sit quietly and empathize with my child. I imagined the moment of revulsion when she saw that little treasure plop into the commode. I heard the sigh of resignation and the resolved roll-up of a sleeve for the world’s worst fishing expedition. And then, I felt the absolute gut-punch of the wet whoosh that swept it away. Then, I considered her halting hesitation to relive the moment by telling me the unvarnished truth about what really happened. I empathized. I understood. And then, I let it go. And I laugh about it from time to time, just to ease her unease. I tease her about it. I joke about it. And now I write about it. The Crappy Situation. The Big Flush of Fate. The Porcelain Purge.
A thousand dollars quite literally flushed down the toilet.
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