
A couple of Sundays ago, we were enjoying a relaxing afternoon. I was making dinner, and Allison headed upstairs to play with her daddy. About 20 minutes later, she came back down looking like the beauty you see above. Mascara. "Where is your father?" I asked. I was afraid to visit the scene of the crime. We marched up the stairs and into the bedroom, finding clues along the way: black streaks on the walls, eyeshadow ground into the carpet. And there he was. His feet were dangling from the bed. His face was wrapped in a pillow. Daddy was fast asleep.






























































