“Who are you talking to?” I stage-whispered. It was early, too early for most of the regulars on Sophie’s call list.

“Papa,” she whispered back, immediately turning back to the call, happily snuggled on the living room couch under several soft blankets. I stood, waiting for it to end; my father is not a big phone guy. In fact, he’s not particularly chatty at all, as we’ve teased him over the years. Particularly with the grandchildren.

But this call went on. And on. It was a good three or four minutes. I could only hear Sophie’s end; it was hard to tell what was being said. Something about holiday cookies, and the cousins who are set to arrive this evening.

As the call wrapped up, Sophie sat up a little straighter and said, out of the blue, “My mom says to tell you that she loves you!”

I had said nothing of the sort. Ray and I have a habit/superstition of almost never ending a call without an “I love you.” My mother and I always say it, and I pretty much announce it every time one of my kids leaves the room, let alone a call. But my father? Never. I think once, when Annabelle was 2 or 3, the two of them were sitting side by side on the couch and she blurted out, “I love you Papa!”

As I recall, there was a long pause and then an awkward, “I love you too, Annabelle.”

But I can’t be sure it’s a real memory or something I imagined.

I didn’t imagine this one. “SOPHIE!” I admonished in my stage-whisper, my cheeks hot. “Why’d you do that?!”

She didn’t even look in my direction, just kept talking, eventually saying good bye and hanging up.

Later, my mom reported the response from the other end: “That’s nice.”

Hey, I’ll take it.

“Do you think Sophie knew what she was doing?” I asked my mom.

“Of course.”

Me too.

This Thanksgiving, I am grateful for family members big and small, gruff and cuddly, and for a daughter who sees us all for what we are — and what we can be.