Tuesday, November 18, 2014


When I call home from my car, she demands to talk to me.

"Mama," she chastizes me, "you have to come home."

"Yes, love," I tell her, "I'm on my way.  I'm in my car right now."

"You have to drive fastly," she says.  I hear the admonishment in her voice.  "So you don't get home so late."

"I'll be home as soon as I can," I tell her.  "But I can't drive too fast; I don't want to get into an accident."

"Well, OK," she says, grudgingly.  I can hear her crossed arms.


"Mama," she tells me, from her bed, wrapping her small arms tightly around my neck, "you're trapped."

I've missed you, too, I think.  "OK," I agree.  "But what about work tomorrow?  How will I get to work?"

"I will un-trap you in the morning," she assures me, hugging even more tightly.

I laugh, but in truth, that would be fine with me.


I love both of my children.  My son is a delight.  But I call my daughter my "special girl."  And every time she loves me like this, fiercely, it returns to me: against the odds, she is the one who lived.
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  1. I read this thinking, how sweet, I love it...

    ...then I read your last sentence and choked up.


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