Sometimes she makes me happier than I have words for.
Sometimes she makes me sadder than I think I can survive.
Sometimes I think I'm exactly the father she needs.
And sometimes, when she's trying so hard to say something that I simply can't understand and for which her device is inadequate, and when she seems frustrated and a little sad and more than a little lonely in a world of concerned grownups and little kids who are passing her by because she can't answer their questions on the playground, sometimes I feel the weight of this on me, and no amount of personal success or happy happy hopeful thoughts can change that.
Sometimes I see happiness in her eyes. I see wonder sometimes, too. And sometimes I see something else, something sadder and more distant. I recognize that look because I know it from the inside out, too.