the object of my object

I walk down the street and see a middle aged man greet a little girl, dressed with pink backpack and pigtails. Hugs and kisses. He grabs her and swings her amidst more hugs and kisses. I watch. I smile. He puts her down, she runs back to someone outside of the frame and then I become the object of my object. Our eyes meet. I separate mine from his and wonder if my smile is still there. How long will it last in the absence of hugs, kisses and children?