I sit cross-legged on the floor, braiding the oldest girl’s hair, admiring the myriad colors. Diego’s peppy voice occupies the attention of the youngest; he has forgotten his bowl of popcorn.
I’m still in shorts and a t shirt, hair pulled into a pony tail, slightly damp from a run. The middle child, a shy little four-year-old girl, watches me in admiration.
“You’re pretty,” she says, as if it’s a fact.
The wonderful thing about children is that they are frank. They say what they think, and tell what they see.
And so, perhaps for the first time, I believe. I am pretty.