She is mine

I know she is mine not for her curly hair or her once every three minute dramatic spells or her lust for anything with cookie in its name but for her outburst this afternoon.

We pull into our driveway and she immediately starts sobbing.

"What is it?" I ask. "We're home."

This makes her cry harder.

I'm out of ideas. "Did you wanna go somewhere else?"

"Uh huh," she says between sobs. "Airplane."

Me too, baby. Me, too.