My daughter sat on the floor watching me get dressed. She was wearing her brother’s ripped t-shirt and her hair was bunched into a knotty knob on her head.
“That’s a pretty dress, Mama.”
Her eyes shone when she looked at me, tiny mirrors that reflected my face back to me in rainbow colors.
I shimmied out of the dress and tossed it on the growing heap of not-quite-right outfits.
“Thanks, honey. But pretty clothes aren’t what’s important, right?”
“Mmm hmmmm.”
“What is important, baby?”
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