Besmirch (verb): to make dirty; to stain

“Oh, I think I messed up.”

Various paints of red, magenta, spring green, and some other color called “indicolite” dappled his football jersey, but the canvas before him looked like a pitiful train wreck. The misshapen blob with four protrusions was meant to be his daughter. He set his paint-caked hands down on the wooden workbench, defeated—he had no idea painting would be millions of times harder than football.

“That’s okay! My teacher said mistakes can do a happen.” The young girl didn’t take her eyes off her own work, but smiled widely at him with purple-smudged lips.

“Yes, thank you,” he murmured, curiously wandering over to her canvas. His calloused hands traced the edge of the silly figure beneath her paint brush, where a pair of hazel eyes identical to his own stared back. “Oh wow! Is that me?” He felt flooded with a strange warmth, suddenly wanting to cherish the painting, no matter how much anyone begged or paid for it.

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“Hey! No peeking!” The little girl flicked her brush, sending a rainbow of paint dots flying at him. “Hmph, now I get to look at yours, because you looked at mine.”

He scrambled forward, but couldn’t catch his daughter as her short legs sailed over her stool with surprising agility. With a smug laugh, she maneuvered herself towards his canvas.

“Wait—!” The man’s heart lurched: there was no way his painting was ready.

But his daughter’s eyes were filled with light. “Aw! That’s me! Good job, dad!”

He froze. Suddenly, all the paint soaking his jersey no longer felt like a stain.