It was a sunny Sunday at the park. I was 5 years old.
My mother’s resolve was waning.
“I am, TOO, old enough for the slide. Look,” I pointed to the other lucky children with NICE PARENTS, gleefully gliding down that fire-engine red plastic slide, “It’s a jungle-gym mom.. it’s made for kids like me!”
With my arguments carefully stated and a satisfied smirk upon my lips, my mother ruffed up my curly hair,
“Fine, but if you fall and break your neck, Dillon, I’ll track you down and kill you myself,” my mother quipped.
Triumphant, I laughed and said, “OK Mom, but you’ll have to catch me first,” as I sprinted away.
I took each step with a giggle. I didn’t even care that my pants were getting dirty.
That’s when I saw her. She wore a flower-patterned dress. Her hair was long and brown. And eyes so green, they shone like emeralds. She looked from me to the slide fearfully.
“Are you ok?” I asked.
“I’m afraid,”
“Come down, Abby,” cried her mother.
I extended my hand. She took it.
“You don’t have to be afraid,”