I am standing at the kitchen counter chopping mushrooms. Felicity is across from me asking for a sip of the wine that I just added to the sauce. (She’s half French. You must forgive her.)
The boys are upstairs doing boy things. Angela is with them and is going along happily, I’m sure, with whatever boy things they are doing. She’s a tough little tyke that way.
Cate is in the sitting room, tapping out a pretty little melody on the piano.
“How’d you like that, Mom?” she called out when she had finished.
“It’s pretty!” I called back. “What’s the name of it?”
“Gentle Complaint!”
“Ha. I wish my complaints were gentle,” I responded, teasingly.
“Yep,” said Cate, a mite too readily. “So do I.”
Don’t you hate it when they agree with you?
Humbly yours,
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