Maybe Tomorrow

“Can you read me another book?” she asked.

“Maybe tomorrow,” her dad said.

She got a hug and a kiss and laid quietly as she watched him walk away, turning the lights for the day.

Her mind wondered what tomorrow meant. When would it come? Will she be there at that time? What if she misses it. What if he forgets?

The glow-in-the-dark figures on her blanket stared back at her from the darkness, as if they, too, wondered how long tomorrow would take to arrive. Her eyes drifted toward the thin strips of light slipping through her curtains, and her thoughts wandered into a world where time was even more unrecognizable.

In that place, her dad floated on clouds and held the book, but still refused to read it. All her stuffed animals that she had lined up against the wall in on her bed were there, alive, and wondering when the book is going to be read.

Was yesterday’s tomorrow already here? A panda bear asked her.

These things were hard to tell, she responded to Panda Bear, just as her unicorn carried her away for a ride.

“Please don’t go too far,” she said to the unicorn. “I want to be back by tomorrow, because that’s when my dad is going to read me the book.”

In her sleep, her tiny hand gripped the small unicorn toy hard—the one that used to be a pacifier during a time of need, but mod had cutoff when she became a big girl. Tonight, it carried her on a journey she was willing to enjoy, if she could return in time for tomorrow.

Every book ever read in her young life, every story told by her dad, mom, friends and sister, she lived through every account ever shared with her. It was a lot of fun.

But nothing was more exciting than the anticipation of tomorrow.

Maybe tomorrow. That’s when her dad will read her another book.

But just like any story ready to be heard, her night story ended, abruptly.

“Good morning, sunshine,” her mother said.

“Is it tomorrow?” the girl asked.

“It’s today,” her mom replied. “Yesterday’s tomorrow.”

She remained confused—but not confused enough to stop her from trying to get to the bottom of the timing of things—she ran down the hallway and into her dad’s room.

“Good morning, my girl,” he said.

“Is it tomorrow yet, Papa?”

“Today is today,” he replied.

“Can you read me the book?”

“How about a good morning hug and a kiss first?” – He demanded.

She agreed to both.

“Now… can you read me the book?”

“Maybe later,” her dad said gently.

Her eyes open wide.

“But you said tomorrow…”

“You are completely right. And today is tomorrow—for the whole day.”

She thought about crying. A tantrum seemed appropriate, given that now she needed to also figure out what later meant. But she was old enough to know there could be consequences to tantrums. And those consequences might end up in no book.

What if he never reads it? Not tomorrow. Not today. Not later. Not ever?

“Okay, Papa. I understand,” she said quietly, in an ever adult-like way, walking out into the living room.

A moment later, as he entered the living-room, she asked again, “How about now? Can you read the book now? Are we later yet?”

She rode in the backseat of the car on the way to daycare, biting her lip, holding her frustration and wondering if tomorrow was running out of time—and if it was already too late for him to read the book. What if later was gone too?

After her dad kissed her goodbye, she sat in the circle with the other children in her daycare. The teacher began to read a book the whole class had voted on.

Everyone except her. She had no interest in listening to other stories that might distract her from looking at the time. Yet, once the story was being told, she listened attentively as the teacher read with enthusiasm.

Yes, it was exciting, but not as exciting as the way her dad read the same book at home the other night. Because tomorrow was today. And she needed to get home sooner rather than later.

At the playground, she seized the moment by taking in the fresh air, but her joy faded as she noticed the sun sinking behind the tree—the same tree she had once climbed without permission and dad told her not to do again.

When the sun reached that spot, it would be time to go home.

Did that mean tomorrow is over? What about the book?

In the car ride home, she asked her mom, “What day is it?”

“It’s Monday,” her mom said.

“Is Monday today or tomorrow?”

“Monday is today. Tomorrow is Tuesday.”

Panic crept into her little heart. Tears filled her eyes. How did this happen?

“What’s wrong?” her mom asked.

“Papa said he might read me another book tomorrow… but today isn’t tomorrow.”

She cried the rest of the way home. No explanation would console her tired little soul.

At home, the waiting felt heavier now. Her dad wasn’t there.

Bath time came, and the warm water and bubbles distracted her for a while—but not for long. Even a short relief felt like an eternity in her tiny life.

By her bedroom window, the light entering the blinds began to fade completely.

She knew yesterday’s tomorrow was ending. It was becoming tomorrow’s yesterday. And today felt as real as the heaviness in her worn-out eyes.

She sat on her bed, staring at the row of stuffed animals against her flower-painted wall.

She asked each, one by one, if they had ever felt this way.

Finally, she grabbed the unicorn—ex- pacifier—and held it close to her heart.

She heard it ask, “Can you please read me another book?”

She whispered back to it, “Maybe tomorrow…”

Then she heard keys jingling outside her door. From the living room came footsteps.

Her door opened, and there stood her dad—holding a book.

She jumped up and ran to him. A hug and a kiss followed, just like always. And for however long it lasted: yesterday, today, and tomorrow no longer mattered in the moment.

“Once upon a time,” her dad said.