I walked downstairs and over to the fireplace to grab my bright blue slides, like I always do. I sit down and put my blue slides on, like I always do. Then I am ready to start my day, but this day was different. Outside my bathroom door are where my blue slides sit always when I shower. As I opened the door to see they were gone, I was struck with fear. I was floored. Who could have moved my slides? They can’t just walk on their own. There must be a rat in the house or a monster or some type of shoe napper that stole my slides and moved them to upset me.
I looked around for 15 minutes and still couldn’t find my slides, leaving me upset and starting to cry. But then I remember something, I have a father who moves everything. I started scanning my entire house for my slides, and I truly mean the entire house. Under the sofa? Not there. Under the oven? Not there. Under the new printer that was just put into the living room? Nope, not there either. I kept looking and looking and looking until my father saw me about to burst into tears and then he broke the news to me.
“Oh, I moved them into the basement.” My father spoke so casually. I looked at him with fire in my eyes and tears rolling down my cheeks.
“You did what?” I said, trying not to get myself grounded by yelling.
“I moved them into the basement because they were wet.” My father said while passing me to sit on the couch to watch some television. I sprinted into the basement with bare feet, which was my worst nightmare, ducking my head under the bar hanging from the ceiling, and there they were. They were glowing, brightly glowing and smiling back at me. I ran over, wiped my feet on the carpet next to my slides. After I realized my feet were less dirty, I put my right foot in its right shoe and then my left foot into my left shoe and there I was. Happy and thrilled that my feet were home.
I had my moment with my shoes and walked back up the stairs from the basement with glee. I stopped in the kitchen. Hearing the television playing, I remembered the whole reason why I was having this awful shoe attack…my father. I walked over, grabbed the remote, turned the tv off and stood right in front of him.
“Why were my shoes in the basement?! You know I love these shoes and need them to walk around the house!” I spoke with a tear running down my face as I kept complaining. “You didn’t even tell me that you moved them and I just showered and needed them! You could have left a note on the bathroom door or on my phone that I would see when I got out…” I kept talking and talking and ranting and ranting. My dad saw no choice but to wait until I was down to talk.
“I just moved them to the basement,” he said, astonished by my outburst. “I moved them there because I tripped over them in the hallway.”
“But why didn’t you tell me?” I spoke again, asking the more important question again.
“I simply forgot to, I am sorry.”
I could tell he didn’t understand how much he hurt my heart and my feet’s souls. I thought about going to my room to cry, but instead, I went into his room and moved his phone from his bedside table, to my mother’s bedside table. Time to wait and see if histicking time bomb mind will explode or if his heart will shatter into a million pieces. If so, then he will finally, finally, understand my pain.