“Here, Marianne,” her father handed his daughter the toy. “It’s your dolly; the one that I fixed.”

Marianne looked at the doll, her six year old, plump face examining what used to be her favorite toy. She turned the doll over, upside down, and sideways; she had a frown on her face, and her golden hair was strewn across her tiny shoulders.

Suddenly, without warning, she burst into angry tears.

“What did you do to dolly, Daddy?” she screeched. “This isn’t dolly! I want the old dolly back! The real dolly!” she yelled, nearly exploding her father’s ear drum in the process.

“But Marianne,” he said, “Change is for the better.”

She looked up at him, not comprehending what he said.
“I don’t care! I want my dolly back!” she set the unrecognizable toy onto the table with a bang and ran out of the room, crying a river.

Her grandfather, who was sitting in an old armchair, chuckled under his breath. The new parent looked at him, exasperated.

“Don’t fix it unless it’s broken,” the old man commented.