As a 9-year old boy, I did not appreciate being called ‘little’ or ‘cute.’
I liked to be taken seriously.
That’s why, when we are out at the shops, the whole family scattered about, doing things of their own interest, I scurry towards my parents, a sense of confidence in my stride. I tell them about the newest pair of shoes on display, the ones everyone at school was wearing. They brushed me off and told me to ogle at something that was still reasonably within my budget. Which was not a lot, only meager peanuts. No, really, I could only afford peanuts with that allowance. Once we reached home, I immediately sought my grandmothers lap for comfort, silently observing as the rest of my huge family showed her what they purchased that day.
When I was tucked into bed that night, I was surprised to see her walk past her own bedtime, my tiny, nighty-clad grandmother. She kept a big box on my side table, and it didn’t even take me a second to recognize it was the pair of shoes from the market.
“Grandma! What? How did you know?” I asked, mouth agape.
“Grandmothers know everything,” she said warmly.
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