This is my story—the story I am writing.

The smell of playdoh on little hands, the way it feels to jump on a trampoline, the wind in your hair. What else is there, really?

Then she grabs a red stiletto from the shelf at Kohl’s with little chubby hands and won’t let go, even when you’ve already paid for everything else and you need to leave. Yep, she’s my kid.

We’re all secretly birds. Eagles.