“I’ll wear my eye patch if you’ll wear one too”

“Leah, your patch.” Nothing.

“Leah! We still need to fit in two hours before bedtime! Where’s your patch?”

Still nothing.

The chart is hanging on the fridge, all ready to go. It’s only seven squares long this time, and decorated with cheerful smileys and glasses. Not that she’ll be able to see it while wearing her patch, but still.

I already know that scores of waiting squares means an endless battle and few victories. Now we’re ready to do anything to get Leah to accept the task, even if this means a weekly prize.

“Leah!” I call again. “Your chart is waiting for your check! Remember what the doctor said?”

I pause, waiting. Were those footsteps?

Leah finally appears at the doorway to the kitchen. Her mouth is in a pout, and her beautiful eyes glare at me from behind her glasses.

“I don’t want to wear a patch.”