“You’re getting worked up,” Maya warns automatically. The book she sets down again, and she keeps the drawing in one hand. With the other, she reaches for Franziska’s arm, hovering a few inches away in a familiar request for permission.
“And I’m being sentimental because it’s sweet. It’s human. You,” Maya clears her throat. “You didn’t get much of a chance to be a kid, right?” Projection, who’s that? Maya doesn’t know her. “Drawing this, didn’t it make you happy back then?” Maya feels angry herself, wanting to defend little Franziska against her present self’s dismissal. Wanting to defend little Franziska against her father.
Franziska gives a terse, almost automatic, nod of permission, but she’s still not calming down much.
“Well, yes, it made me feel happy then because it was a delusion meant for that purpose! I thought if I was good enough, Papa would....” She shakes her head, shoulders tensing as she jabs a finger at the offending drawing. “It’s foolish and a reminder that I was blind to think he was even capable...!”
She makes a noise of frustration. “I don’t want to remember any of those ridiculous fantasies!”