Standing in the kitchen, preparing a couscous salad with my eleven-year old son, (for the new neighbours who are moving in today – we fathomed they wouldn’t be up to cooking) we both listen to the dulcet tones of the littlest girl in the house. She sings as she colours in a picture with as much precision as is possible with five-year old hands.
Then she announces matter-of-factly to me, “If you don’t say this picture is beautiful, I’ll cry!”
To which my chopping-tomatoes-son retorts, “She’s one of those one in a million girls. Actually, she might be one in a billion. She’s one of those special ones.”
I start to cry.