A little before my 10th birthday, I was like, 'Can I please have

Host: The late afternoon sun filtered through the window blinds of a quiet Oklahoma living room, spilling warm ribbons of light across the carpet. The air carried the faint smell of cookies cooling on the counter, the hum of a ceiling fan, and the tender chaos that only lived in houses full of children — laughter, footsteps, music, and dreams all colliding at once.

On the floor sat a little girl, ten years old, with wide eyes and a heart too big for her chest. In front of her lay a magazine clipping — a picture of a puppet with bright eyes and a mischievous smile. Jack, now grown, sat on that same carpet years later, holding the memory like a fragile keepsake, as Jeeny listened beside him, her voice soft, her tone filled with wonder.

Jeeny: “Darci Lynne Farmer once said, ‘A little before my 10th birthday, I was like, “Can I please have a puppet, Mom and Dad?” They were like, “No. You are a singer, not a ventriloquist. You have three brothers, and you’re in gymnastics. There’s no way we have time for this.”’”
She smiled, shaking her head gently. “Can you imagine? A ‘no’ like that — and yet look what it became.”

Jack: (chuckling) “Yeah. Every great story starts with someone saying, you don’t have time for this.”

Host: The ceiling fan hummed, slicing the light into slow, lazy motion. The house seemed to breathe, as though it still held echoes of all the small rebellions that had once filled it — a child’s stubbornness, the soft defiance of wanting something no one else understood.

Jeeny: “What I love about that quote isn’t the puppet. It’s the persistence hiding behind it. A ten-year-old, already negotiating with destiny.”

Jack: “And her parents trying to protect her from disappointment.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. But destiny doesn’t listen to logic. It listens to calling.”

Host: Jack leaned back against the sofa, his hands tracing the edge of the puppet magazine clipping — its corners worn, colors faded. He stared at it for a long moment, like one might look at a photograph of a crossroads they’d once missed or found by accident.

Jack: “You know what’s wild? That sentence — ‘There’s no way we have time for this’ — it’s so ordinary. So parental. And yet, that one small no gave her the reason to make the biggest yes of her life.”

Jeeny: “Because dreams always start as interruptions.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You make that sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “It is. Every child dreams at the wrong time — when the world’s busy, when the schedule’s full, when logic says no. But sometimes, that’s how magic tests persistence: by showing up when life’s already crowded.”

Host: The light shifted, sliding across the framed photos on the wall — the frozen smiles of siblings, a family mid-laughter, a young girl clutching a small puppet in her hands, eyes bright with victory.

Jack: “Her parents were probably just being realistic. Gymnastics, singing, three brothers — who has time for puppets?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And that’s why it’s perfect. Because passion doesn’t ask permission from practicality.”

Jack: “It just knocks on the door until someone listens.”

Jeeny: “Or until you start building the door yourself.”

Host: A soft breeze drifted through the window, stirring the curtains, bringing with it the faint scent of cut grass and childhood. The room seemed to fill with ghosts of laughter — a girl practicing voices in secret, a family too busy to notice that a dream was quietly forming in the corners of their home.

Jack: “You ever notice how kids don’t think about ‘career paths’? They just fall in love with something. Singing, drawing, puppets — whatever feels like wonder. Adults call it distraction. But that’s where the truest calling hides.”

Jeeny: “Because kids haven’t learned how to lie to themselves yet. They haven’t learned to trade joy for practicality.”

Jack: “And the world spends the rest of their lives trying to teach them that trade.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Until someone refuses the lesson.”

Host: The sound of the clock ticking filled the silence — each second passing like a heartbeat, a reminder of how quickly childhood becomes memory.

Jack: “You think she would’ve still made it if her parents had said yes right away?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But I think the ‘no’ gave her power. Every rejection gives you a reason to prove the world wrong. To show that your joy isn’t negotiable.”

Jack: “So you’re saying resistance is fertilizer?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Dreams grow best in doubt.”

Host: A car drove past, its headlights briefly illuminating the room — a flash of movement, gone as quickly as it arrived. The moment felt fragile, suspended between nostalgia and revelation.

Jack: “You know, I think that’s why her story’s beautiful. It’s not about fame or talent — it’s about courage. A kid who loved something strange enough to chase it anyway.”

Jeeny: “Yes. She didn’t wait for validation. She didn’t ask the world for permission. She just asked for a puppet.”

Jack: (laughing softly) “And got a destiny instead.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: They both sat in the quiet, the memory of childhood rebellion wrapping around them like the evening light — warm, forgiving, eternal.

Jeeny: “You know what I think, Jack? Every one of us had a ‘puppet’ moment — something we wanted badly and were told not to bother with. Most people never circle back to it.”

Jack: “And the few who do end up creating magic.”

Jeeny: “Because they never stopped believing in small, impossible beginnings.”

Host: The sun dipped lower, the room now painted in amber and shadow, the air heavy with nostalgia. Jack set down the clipping, his voice low and almost tender.

Jack: “She was just a kid who wanted a puppet. And that want — that simple, unshakable want — changed her life.”

Jeeny: “That’s how it works. The smallest requests, whispered with love, end up echoing the loudest.”

Host: The clock struck six, its chime soft, like a lullaby for forgotten dreams. Outside, the first stars blinked awake, small but certain — reminders that even quiet beginnings can light up the dark.

And as the room settled into stillness, Darci Lynne Farmer’s words lingered like a spark that refused to fade:

that behind every extraordinary act,
there’s always a small, ordinary moment of asking —
a child’s voice saying, “Can I please?”

And sometimes,
it doesn’t matter if the world says no.

Because the heart hears yes
long before the world catches up.