She was barely two. Pink sandals, dusty knees, and hair stuck to her cheek from the last parts of the sucker she had on the way over to dad’s work.

She stood at the edge of the loading dock, arms stretched high, reaching for a place she couldn’t touch.

Her dad watched from the side, carrying boxes up the staircase behind her. Back and forth. Load after load.

Each time he passed, she pointed again.

“Up,” she said. “Up.”

He smiled, but kept walking.

She grunted this time as she tried to pull herself up by the edge, but her legs slipped and she landed in the gravel.

Frustrated tears came fast. She turned to him, betrayed.

He set down the box, knelt beside her, and brushed the dirt from her hands.

“There’s a way,” he said gently, pointing to the stairs. “But you’ve gotta walk it.”

She didn’t understand; she just looked up again.

So he scooped her into his arms and carried her the long way around.

Step by step they went up the stairs while he held her hand.

At the top, she grinned wide like she’d done it herself.

He just held her steady while she celebrated, then he took her hand.

“Come on,” he said. “Walk with me.”

And that’s what they did.

Down the stairs and back up again. One step at a time. Over and over like it was a carnival ride.

She came to love the steps more than she loved the platform.

She didn’t know it then, but she was doing much more than helping dad unload boxes.