“What’s your favorite insect?” my seven-year-old daughter asked as we took an evening walk on the first night of her spring vacation.
“You can’t pick butterfly. Everyone picks the butterfly,” she quickly added before I had a chance to respond.
“Hmmmm,” I thought out loud. “I guess mine would have to be a ladybug,” I finally answered.
“Mine’s a firefly. I love the firefly,” she said wistfully.
We kept walking. Talking. Enjoying the rare treat of alone time—just my younger daughter and me.
“Am I okay? I mean, am I fine?” she asked looking down at herself. “Sometimes I feel different.”
I immediately stopped walking and searched her face. Without saying what she meant, I knew; I just knew.
I bent down and spoke from a painful memory tucked away since second grade. “When I was your age. I felt different too. I felt uncomfortable, self conscious. One…
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