(This is old. And short.)
In his earliest years, Edward loved playing with Daddy. Having been so young, he could only remember vaguely the time they shared together; how much he loved holding on to daddy's leg and seeing how far he could travel before the man tired; yanking on his beard until Trisha had to interfere for fear that her husband might become seriously injured at the toddler's hands; sitting at the pondside together with makeshift rods to little avail, there being no fish in that shallow puddle in the first place.
His favorite part of playing with Daddy, though, was when Daddy would lift his tiny son with large strong hands and hoist him onto his shoulders. The world was amazing from there; Edward was thoroughly convinced that heights such as these were an exclusive view reserved for only the luckiest most special of people. Momma would look up from nursing baby Alphonse, see the two of them strolling towards her as one great mammoth of a combined creature, a chimera of father and son, and she would giggle in the way that made them both feel safer than they ever had, and comment on how very quickly little Ed seemed to be growing. From Daddy's shoulders, Edward felt indomitable, invincible, as if the whole world was his to conquer, and all was good and right under his knowing watch.
When Daddy left, Edward didn't feel so tall anymore.